


The Top to Bottom to Switch Affair

by Taylor Dancinghands (tdancinghands)



Series: The Cold War Collar Affairs [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tdancinghands/pseuds/Taylor%20Dancinghands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha Top Napoleon Solo, the new CEA at UNCLE, is surprised when he is asked to take a sub on a mission with him. Subs weren't generally considered suitable for field work, but Illya Kuryakin's science acumen was considered vital for the mission, and Waverly insisted that the Russian agent's field skills were more than sufficient to the task.</p><p>Kuryakin more than proves himself on the mission, and Napoleon finds himself intrigued by the man. He's not the sort of sub he'd generally take to bed, and Kuryakin is a Soviet State asset, and unavailable anyhow. Still, it seems to Napoleon that there's more to the stoic and talented Russian than he lets on. Illya Kuryakin has his secrets, and Napoleon just can't leave well enough alone. Getting the Russian's secrets from him will come with a price, however, for Napoleon has his own secrets -ones that he's keeping from himself, and those are the most dangerous secrets of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a first for me on two counts: it will be my first Man from UNCLE story, and my first story in the BDSM universe. As far as I can see, MUNCLE fandom seems to be quite welcoming and friendly, but I am also aware that several fan writers who have written in the BDSM universe -especially Xanthe, whose brilliant brainchild it was- have found themselves embroiled in controversy, and inundated in truly horrid flames and condemnation.
> 
> I've never had a negative comment on any of my fanfics, but then I tend to write in relatively obscure fandoms and pairings (ST: TNG -Picard/Data, and SGA -Zelenka/McKay, mainly). I don't really expect to run afoul of such reactionary dipshits, but you never know. As a precaution, however, I will make clear from the very start:
> 
> THIS STORY TAKES PLACE IN A FICTIONAL, FANTASY UNIVERSE, IN WHICH (nearly) EVERYONE TAKES PART IN BDSM SEX. IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE REALISTIC IN ANY WAY.
> 
> For more information about this universe, I recommend the following article, [ HERE](http://fanlore.org/wiki/BDSM_AU) where you can read the history, a description of the alternative social structure, and some examples of other stories in this universe.
> 
> IF YOU DON'T LIKE BDSM, DON'T THINK THE MUNCLE CHARACTERS SHOULD OR WOULD DO THIS, OR CAN'T SEPARATE FANTASY FICTION FROM REAL LIFE:
> 
>  
> 
> ***DO. NOT. PROCEED. FURTHER!!!!***

Newly minted UNCLE Chief Enforcement Agent Napoleon Solo was still at the stage where he stopped at every reflective surface in UNCLE headquarters, New York to admire his new badge. His badge wasn't the only thing he admired, of course. In an agency full of secrets, it was no secret that Napoleon was a vain man, but nothing less was expected from an Alpha Top —especially one who had just become the youngest CEA in the history of UNCLE.

He absorbed the adoring gaze of the lovely young sub stationed outside Waverly's office, but before he had time to flirt she nodded him towards the door. Napoleon Solo hadn't gotten to his current position by keeping Tops like Master Alexander Waverly waiting, and so he swept in with no more than a wink and a fleeting grin. Perhaps he'd chat her up after the meeting, if there was time.

Napoleon knew it was going to be a new mission briefing, and he figured he might be working with one or more agents. As Chief Enforcement Officer he'd have bigger, more complicated missions to oversee, though he was also altogether content to work alone —as his name suggested. This, he saw upon entering the briefing room and stepping up to the great circular table, was not to be today, for there was another agent sitting at the table already... but it was not another field agent.

As was the case with most dangerous or demanding roles in the civilized world today, only Tops were given field agent positions in UNCLE. It was generally understood, and Napoleon didn't disagree, that subs simply didn't have the temperament for field work. Taking initiative and being self directing simply wasn't natural to their dynamic, regardless of what could be heard nowadays from various 'subs-lib' spokespersons. In the espionage business especially, there was a real danger that when tortured subs could too easily be swayed over to the other side. They were wired to respond to pain and pleasure in a certain way, no matter what their training or intentions.

This was the reason for Napoleon's surprise and confusion when he saw the blonde haired man, wearing a collar emblazoned with the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union, sitting at the table opposite Master Waverly. He knew the man, of course. He was well known in the New York branch as the terror of the Science Section; the icey cold intellect known as Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon had attended some of his science briefings, and the man knew his business, without at doubt. This was a mission briefing, however, and Kuryakin was no field agent. What was he doing here?

"Have a seat, Mr Solo," Waverly prompted, recalling Napoleon to the fact that he'd been stalled in the doorway. "You've a lot of material to cover and it must be covered well if we're to avoid another cock-up like Abernathy and Chalmers' last fiasco."

Ah ha, Napoleon thought. So this was to be a follow up on the ultra-sonic projector business which the previously mentioned agents had bungled so badly last week. They'd been sent to collect a scientist who'd managed to communicate that he was keen to part company with his masters in THRUSH, and that he had the technical plans for a weapon he'd been working on for them as an inducement. Of course THRUSH wasn't going to let the man go without a fight, but Abernathy and Chalmers ought to have at least managed to come away with either the scientist or his plans. Instead the scientist had been killed and the plans destroyed, which the agents had tried to sell as 'half a loaf'. Waverly had not been convinced and both agents had paid for their incompetence with a half dozen lashes in the UNCLE punishment arena.

Waverly had been proven right (as usual) when it surfaced that THRUSH had been running a mirror lab in Yugoslavia where the scientist's work was being reproduced. They didn't have the plans or the scientist, but they did have a more than half completed prototype containing the most critical element —the hyper-cavitation module— which was simply too dangerous to leave in enemy hands. All this Napoleon had read in the post-mission report and Kuryakin was reiterating it now, with a few more technical details thrown in. So maybe he was just here to contribute to the briefing.

"The upshot of all this," Waverly preempted, "is that this particular module _must_ be acquired intact, and to remove it from the mechanism in which it is reportedly installed, you will need a highly skilled technician. For this reason I am assigning Mr Kuryakin to assist you on this mission."

Napoleon drew a breath to object immediately, and then promptly bit his tongue. For one thing, he knew better than to object to any instruction of Waverly's, and for another he had no alternative solution. If there'd been a Top with the proper expertise, he or she would be sitting at this table now instead of Kuryakin. Still, if he was taking the man into the field he had a right to be appraised of his fitness.

"I understand the need for a technician, Sir," Napoleon said, "but before we get anywhere near the projector we're going to have to find the facility, break into it and find wherever THRUSH has stashed the thing. Is Agent Kuryakin going to be able to be of assistance in any other phase of the mission besides the removal of the module?"

Kuryakin did not react in the least to being talked over; that was a sub's lot, after all, but Waverly responded to Napoleon's question by nodding in the sub's direction.

"I would be a fully qualified KGB field agent," the Russian said, "were I of a different dynamic." He said it in such a matter of fact way that he could have been talking about circuits and hyper-cavitation still, rather than something which would raise dozens of question in any Top's mind. The Soviets were even more strict about dynamic roles than the US. Napoleon couldn't imagine how a sub could have gotten such extensive training, much less completed it.

Napoleon did secretly suspect Waverly of being a bit of a 'sub-libber' himself. Certainly when Napoleon had first begun his agent training here, seven years ago, few if any subs worked at UNCLE save in the secretarial pool. Now as much as thirty percent of the science and research staff were submissives and Napoleon had to admit, UNCLE was the better for it. No one was proposing training subs for field work here, however, and Napoleon couldn't imagine that they would.

All of that left a lot of questions about the circumstances of the blonde headed sub now sitting across the table from him, ice blue eyes confronting him directly, assessing and unafraid. Napoleon met that gaze as a challenge, thinking to assert his dominance from the start but Kuryakin would not blink.

"Perhaps you'd like to put each other through your paces, so to speak, on the range," Waverly suggested in that way he had which made it clear that it was not a suggestion at all. "Before the mission, I imagine it would be good for you to each get the measure of the other."

Both men broke their gazes simultaneously to look at Waverly and nod, and they stood as one, completely unintentionally. Was there something smugly satisfied in the old man's expression, Napoleon wondered as he and Kuryakin turned to go? Napoleon tried not to dwell on it as he and his new partner made their way to UNCLE's extensive training wing.

They passed around the back of the small indoor arena used for everything from administrative punishments to martial arts classes to occasional public exhibitions. A handful of Tops in white gis were practicing throws and falls as Napoleon and Kuryakin made their way across to the door that lead to the shooting ranges. Here they saw a number of subs —who, at UNCLE, were required to keep to a certain firearms proficiency— as well as Tops, taking shots at various targets at various ranges. Napoleon signed in and took two pair of ear protectors, handing one to Kuryakin.

"The range first or the course?" he asked.

"Might as well begin with the basics," the sub said, nodding toward a pair of open positions at the range. Napoleon prompted Kuryakin to go first, and then had to remind himself to keep his mouth closed as the sub picked out the center of every single target, moving and stationary. It dawned on Napoleon suddenly that he was looking at the mysterious 'IK' with whom he'd been battling for top shooting scores for a couple of years now. Tamping down his chagrin, Napoleon focused on his own targets and managed, to his great relief, to tie the Russian's score. Then they moved to the course.

The tacticians who designed UNCLE's shooting course were all, in Napoleon's opinion, either sadists or masochists. The course was never the same from week to week, and Napoleon swore they had actually been making it steadily and incrementally harder since he first qualified with a weapon at UNCLE. Today, however, he felt that even more was at stake than usual. He _had_ to best this coolly arrogant sub, the Top in him asserted firmly.

Napoleon had never addressed the course in such a toppy state of mind before, but Kuryakin definitely brought it out in him. Now, as he stepped into the course, mind reacting with lightning speed to discriminate the friend and foe targets that might jump up from the floor, drop down from the ceiling, or loom in from any direction, the sense of calm control which came with Top-space only served to improve his performance. Napoleon finished the course with a sense of triumphant euphoria, and showed no surprise at all when he saw that he'd made his highest score ever —and set a record for the course.

Kuryakin only raised an eyebrow and stepped into the course as soon as it was ready for him. Napoleon watched him with admiration, for the sub moved with an almost poetic efficiency. Only once did Napoleon see him hesitate, holding his pistol on a 'friendly' target for a split second longer than he ought. Perhaps, Napoleon reflected, little girls clutching stuffed bears might be considered a potentially dangerous target in the Soviet Union; one never knew.

In the end, Kuryakin's score was only a little lower than Napoleon's, and higher than his previous score through this course. Napoleon did not feel quite as vindicated as he would have liked and proposed that they test each other's mettle on one more field.

Generally Tops and subs did not train together in hand-to-hand exercises, for obvious reasons, but it might be done if both Top and sub agreed to keep it 'professional'. It was Napoleon's opinion, however that most subs who promised not to react as a submissive in such encounters were fooling themselves. He did really want to take Kuryakin's measure in hand-to-hand, but he also wanted to make this point to his new partner. He might be smarter than Einstein; he might be a crack shot, but he was still a sub.

Kuryakin agreed to the match and, ever the gentleman, Napoleon let him chose the fighting style. He chose judo, which surprised Napoleon because nearly everyone at UNCLE knew this was his own area of expertise. Of course, Napoleon had no idea which martial art the Russian excelled in, and it might well have been judo for him as well. He would see, he supposed.

The previous group was just leaving the arena when Napoleon and Kuryakin exited the locker room, clad in fighting togs. Napoleon asked that the space be cleared —as no other activities were scheduled and he Kuryakin had agreed to a sparring match, not to appear in an exhibition. One of the departing trainees asked if he should hang the 'Scene' sign on the door but Napoleon shook his head. That's not what this was either and he saw that Kuryakin took note of this and nodded with approval.

Once in the ring, the two of them began tentatively, throwing a few light punches and trying a few brief grapples. Once again Napoleon had to admire the sub's form and physique, revealed more by the loosely fitting gi. Kuryakin's body was smallish and lithe, but his hands were broad and, as Napoleon quickly discovered, quite strong. He'd figured the sub would be a mainly defensive fighter, relying on his speed and agility, but Kuryakin showed an aggressive approach from the beginning which caught Napoleon unawares.

The first time he found himself working hard to free himself from one of the sub's grapples Napoleon felt the Top in him awaken with indignant fury. Napoleon had figured from the start that he would rely on his size and strength and surprise the sub with his speed, but now those tactics became more about dominating his partner than besting him. The difference was subtle, but both Napoleon and Kuryakin were well aware of it. In less than a minute they both felt the tenor of the match shift.

There was a part of Napoleon's brain that knew he should stop the match and, glancing at the sub, he saw a similar knowledge in the other man's eyes. Beyond that, however, he also saw a similar desire. Neither of them _wanted_ to stop. So maybe he should have let them hang out the 'Scene' sign, but it was too late to do anything about it now. Napoleon's blood was up and so, it seemed, was Kuryakin's. Now they fell upon each other with both mind and dynamic fully engaged and Napoleon's toppy soul sang with savage glee.

A flurry of kicks and punches were thrown and blocked with lightning speed and then suddenly Napoleon felt his legs swept out from under him. He deflected his sense of surprise as he would a punch and unleashed his strength to surge up at Kuryakin from below, tackling him and pulling him down onto the mat. The sub went down as he'd planned, but slithered out of Napoleon's grasp like a fish. Napoleon laughed with exhilaration —the first sound either of them had made beside soft grunts and exhalations. He'd never in his life encountered a sub like this and dominating him eventually was going to be the best toppy high of Napoleon's life.

Kuryakin's answering grin was savage and almost mocking but Napoleon Solo, even in his toppiest Top-space was not to be so provoked. Instead, his mind was playing out his and Kuryakin's potential moves like a high speed chess match and he had no doubt the sub was doing the same. There was a pause as each drew themselves into a crouch, then Napoleon lunged again, provoking his partner into a counter attack. He then he surprised the sub by switching to the purely defensive.

This had the desired effect of forcing Kuryakin to abandon his planned strategies. Napoleon could tell when the man was reduced to mere improvising. That was when Napoleon struck, tackling the sub as if to mount him and pin him, but then shifting his grip even as Kuryakin was beginning to free himself. With speed that surprised even himself, Napoleon flipped them both of them onto their backs and suddenly the sub was not pinned but held securely in a choke hold.

For all of a second and a half the sub in his arms held himself tense, as if to struggle further, but then he relaxed... and then relaxed further, and Napoleon knew he had him. They were not sparring partners now, but Dom and sub, both succumbing to their natural dynamic completely. They were both more than slightly hard too, but that was a line Napoleon was not going to cross (no matter that he really would have liked to). Instead, they both lay breathing heavily, on their backs with Kuryakin half on top of Napoleon, Napoleon's arm locked around his neck.

"I suppose," Kuryakin eventually said in a strained voice, "this is where I say, 'Uncle'?"

"That is the tradition around here," Napoleon answered affably.

"Very well," the Russian said with a resigned sigh. "'Uncle' it is." Napoleon responded immediately, releasing his grasp and rolling free. The two of them helped each other to their feet with careful civility.

"Good match," Napoleon said, turning their hand clasp into a congratulatory handshake.

"Likewise," Kuryakin responded as they moved off the mats and headed towards the showers they both wanted. Napoleon's was going to be icy cold, that was for certain, and he suspected that his partner would be following suit. Already Napoleon was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of what they'd just done. They were going to have to work a mission together and he'd allowed the natural tension between the two of them to increase considerably.

The Top in him was entirely satisfied with the outcome, and made the case that they would work better together now that the sub had been 'put in his place', but the more civilized and analytical part of Napoleon was not at all convinced that the lesson would stick in Kuryakin's case. They would do far better on the mission, this part of him was sure, if they functioned as agent and agent, rather than as Top and sub. Well, they had five days before they departed, and they'd need to spend much of that time working together, strategising and doing research for the mission. That would be a perfect opportunity to build a more professional relationship.

It seemed that Kuryakin had come to a similar conclusion, because professional was exactly how things were from then on in. The Russian was a diligent worker with excellent attention to detail, and he was also a fine strategist. Though they both had different strengths, their minds worked shockingly alike when it came to making plans. Napoleon decided that he would very much like to see how the man played chess, but that for now it might well end up being too much like their sparring match. Perhaps he would suggest a game after their mission.

As CEA, Napoleon was entitled to examine the personnel files of all UNCLE employees (except for Waverly), and so he didn't consider it inappropriate at all to have a look at Kuryakin's. Of course, if Waverly hadn't disputed Kuryakin's claim that he was, theoretically, a fully qualified KGB field agent, then Napoleon knew that this had to be more or less true, but _how_ that could be true remained a mystery which he hoped Kuryakin's records would clear up. In that, however, he was only disappointed.

Illya Kuryakin's file had records both from UNCLE (in English) and from the Soviet Union (in Cyrillic Russian). Napoleon was able to read Cyrillic and Russian well enough to suss out the basics, including the fact that there was a considerable gap between the time he served as a naval officer and the time he was listed as a science advisor for the KGB, about three years before he joined UNCLE. According to his UNCLE records Kuryakin was serving as a KGB field agent during that time, but without a single detail as to how many and what sort of missions he'd undertaken. The only thing written in his Russian documents for that period was the comment: "Record expunged". No reason why was given.

Besides being awarded the level of Master in chess, Kuryakin's records also showed him to be an expert level marksman and as having won medals in swimming and gymnastics. These latter awards were noted as having been revoked, however, again with no explanation given. Clearly Kuryakin had gotten crosswise of someone in the Soviet hierarchy at some point, but Napoleon doubted that the sub would be open to questions about it. Aside from the occasional anecdote from his past which pertained directly to their current mission, Kuryakin had spoken of his personal life and history not at all, and Napoleon had felt obliged to follow his lead.

It wasn't as if he was going to be able to pursue him as a sub in any case, Napoleon reminded himself. All unattached subs in the Soviet military and other uniform services were wards of the state (hence the hammer and sickle on the man's collar) and even to arrange a single play session, Napoleon would be required to contact the nearest consulate for permission. Given that fact the man had to be essentially celibate, unless he was sneaking off to the sort of disreputable clubs which allowed collared subs to play without their Top's permission.

Kuryakin's collar was not permanent (such things had been outlawed by the Geneva Conventions), but it was sealed. If he removed it the seal would be visibly broken and the consequences for him or the Top who broke it could be severe. Such arrangements were legal in most of the west, as well as the US and Canada, but Napoleon thought this to be nothing more than an open declaration of a lack of trust between Top and sub. Then again, Napoleon found the very idea of state appropriation of subs disturbingly wrong. To him, a collar should be a mark of a consensual relationship between individuals, whose first principle must be trust. What trust could exist between a soulless, authoritarian state and a man? It was perversion of everything a dynamic relationship should be.

And yet millions of people these days lived under such strictures, including his current partner. Of all the personal and inappropriate questions Napoleon wanted to ask the man, _how_ he and his fellow Soviet citizens endured such things was the first. None of this was relevant to the mission, however, and Napoleon reminded himself of that fact far too often as their departure grew near. He knew better, however, than to be worried that he would be distracted during the mission —Napoleon was much too much of a professional for that to happen— and he had no doubts about Kuryakin's reliability either, in spite of his mysterious background.

Napoleon had a well developed sixth sense about who he could and could not trust, and there was no question in his mind about Kuryakin. This impression was informed by what he'd seen on the range and experienced in the sparring ring as well as what he'd read in the man's record, but the final verdict was rendered by that internal sense which had never yet steered him wrong. A week ago if someone had asked him how he would feel about going into the field with a sub as his partner, Napoleon would have expressed severe doubts, but no doubts whatsoever plagued him as he and Kuryakin boarded their plane for Vienna at the outset of their mission.

They passed the lengthy flight sleeping and studying a few mission details, and Napoleon broke the tedium from time to time, flirting with the most attractive of the stewards. From Vienna they traveled by train to Maribor, just the other side of the Yugoslav border and there they had a room reserved in a local hiker's hostel. It was between seasons —too cold and rainy for camping but not yet snowy enough for skiing— so they had the place more or less to themselves. Perhaps that was what prompted Kuryakin to raise, for the first time, a slightly personal question.

He'd picked up some sort of technical journal (in French) at the airport and was reading it as Napoleon returned to their room after having completed his evening ablutions in the bathroom down the hall. He looked up from his reading as Napoleon came in, watched him putter about the room briefly then, as he was climbing into bed, raised his question.

"What is your opinion, agent Solo, on the topic of switches?" he asked.

Napoleon frowned and made a thoughtful sound as he tried to come up with an honest but non-controversial answer. "I've heard it said that switches are about as real as unicorns and the Easter Bunny, and I've also heard that anyone claiming to be one must be suffering from some sort of neurosis or delusion, but I imagine that the truth is probably somewhat more complicated."

"So you've never met anyone who claimed to be a switch?" Kuryakin asked.

"Can't say as I have,"Napoleon replied. "Which isn't to say that I might not know someone who feels that they are a switch, but haven't said as much."

"Probably you do," the sub said matter of factly. "I just happened to be reading here about an American doctor —working in Indiana, I believe— who has put out a new theory that, rather than falling into separate categories, people's dynamics fall on a spectrum, from the most Alpha Tops at one end to the most submissive subs at the other. A few people fall on the extremes, most find themselves closer to one end or the other, and a few may fall right in the middle. According to this fellow, anyway. Naturally, he can't get his research published in the US."

"I'm not surprised," Napoleon said, because it did rather fly in the face of the established order of things. "Are you going to stay up reading much longer?"

"No," his partner replied. "I've finished the article. I do find the idea quite interesting, however. Imagine what it would mean if it were true?"

"Hmm," said Napoleon noncommittally, settling in and turning off his bedside lamp. He wanted it to mean nothing, but he could not help his thoughts turning to those few, odd things he felt compelled to do, from time to time. Things he never spoke of, like how he sometimes asked a sub to ride him while he reached above his head to grasp the bars on the bed, as though he were bound there. And how he kept a pair of nipple clamps —hard ones— that he wore himself sometimes, alone, on nights when he fell under a certain mood.

The sharp pain, the restraint he felt when he did those things felt oddly freeing, and yet filled him, at the same time, with a deep sense of shame. He could not imagine speaking of it with anyone else, and wondered what Kuryakin had meant by raising the subject. Maybe it was just because of the journal article, but Napoleon felt sure that there was something else behind it. Regardless, these were not thoughts conducive to getting a good night's sleep, so he shut them off —a trick he'd learned as a soldier, long before he'd become a spy— shut his eyes and slept.

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Captured again. Napoleon sighed, found that to be singularly unsatisfying with his arms chained above his head and his feet barely touching the cold, stone floor of their cell, and —with some effort— sighed again more deeply. Getting captured hadn't been part of the plan, naturally. It almost never was, in spite of the fact that it often worked as an infallible way to get inside the enemy's facility. So here they were, chained to the wall, waiting for someone to decide they'd been 'softened up' enough to begin torturing and questioning them.

Countless opportunities for escape and mayhem generally presented themselves at that juncture, and Napoleon was prepared to act on whichever came along first. It didn't make the waiting any less tedious or uncomfortable, however. Contrary to his expectation, Kuryakin didn't seem to be reacting to the restraint and discomfort any differently from Napoleon. Glancing to his right, where his partner was chained in a similar manner, Napoleon saw that the sub seemed not the least bit aroused, and was currently scowling in the direction of the cell door.

"How long do you think they'll leave us here?" Kuryakin asked, his tone considering, rather than panicked or dismayed. He'd behaved the perfect professional up to now, giving good account of himself in the fight when they'd been spotted, but surrendering calmly when it became clear how outnumbered they were. Napoleon had worried that their THRUSH captors might treat Kuryakin differently because he was a sub, or even feel entitled to 'use' him, but while they'd searched the two UNCLE agents thoroughly, emptied their pockets and even taken their shoes, their THRUSH guards hadn't bothered to look under the high rolled collar of Kuryakin's black turtleneck, and so possibly didn't even know he was a sub.

"Depends on how impatient they are," Napoleon replied. "But trust me, as uncomfortable as this is, it's probably not as uncomfortable as what's coming next."

"I am well aware," the Russian said, reminding Napoleon that he was possibly not as inexperienced as he seemed.

Like UNCLE, THRUSH didn't appear to find subs suitable for field work, with the exception of the occasional subs they trained to work as honey traps or assassins. These, in Napoleon's experience, tended to be regarded as expendable and, if identified before they could carry their missions out, were easy to turn to UNCLE's cause. Napoleon didn't see Kuryakin as being the easily turnable type, but he'd have made a devastating honey trap, if ever the KGB had thought to use him thusly.

It was often Napoleon's practice to spend long hours of uncomfortable captivity in pleasant imaginings and recollections, but he knew better than to let himself be drawn into any imaginings of Illya Kuryakin prettied up for the seduction of some unfortunate Top. Napoleon himself might be hard pressed to say no. But he wasn't going to let himself think about such things, was he? Instead he was going to think about... what the hell was Kuryakin doing now?

He'd been restlessly shifting his grip for some minutes, but Napoleon had assumed that this was just because the cuffs were cutting into his wrists. Now, however, Napoleon saw that he'd managed to get a grip on the bracket to which his cuffs were hooked and was currently flexing his arms, supporting the weight of his whole body with his hands. Napoleon watched in astonishment as the sub lifted his knees nearly to his chest, then arched his back and thrust his hips away from the wall, catapulting his legs out and up. Following the trajectory with his eyes, Napoleon saw his goal, for the ceiling above them was crisscrossed with any number of old pipes, many of which hung low enough for Kuryakin to get his legs over.

His first attempt failed, but even Napoleon could see that it had been a mere test of the idea. Now Kuryakin gathered himself for a second, more serious attempt and Napoleon watched, breath held, as the sub thrust himself forward again. Napoleon stifled a shout of triumph when his partner got one ankle hooked over a well placed pipe, then managed to drag his other leg up and finally got both his knees over it. Now the sub was slung like a hammock between the pipe and the wall, pale hair hanging down like a silken fringe beneath him, but it was clear he had a plan.

Watching with admiration, Napoleon saw that his partner had released the bracket to which his chained cuffs were hooked and now pushed himself away from the wall, lifting the chain off the bracket so that his hands were free of it. Dropping back to hang upside down from the now sagging pipe, Kuryakin moved like a professional gymnast, swinging his arms and upper body until he had the momentum to grab hold of the pipe between his knees. From there it seemed a simple matter to unhook his knees and lower them until he hung vertically, then he released the pipe and dropped to the floor with the silent grace of a cat.

"Nicely done," said Napoleon with all sincerity. "I'd applaud, but..." He tilted his head upward to glance at his bound hands.

Kuryakin did not respond to the quip, but flexed his back and shoulders, regarding Napoleon directly. "Tell me you still have a lock pick stitched into your inseam?" he said quietly so as not to alert any guards outside.

Napoleon nodded and then held as still as possible while the sub worked the small piece of metal through the weave of Napoleon's slacks, very near his crotch. Control, he thought to himself severely, willing himself not to become aroused. That's what Tops are supposed to have better than subs. Luckily, Kuryakin had the little tool free in less than a minute, and had his cuffs open in even less time than that. Napoleon then wondered how the sub would manage his own cuffs, still hooked above his head and essentially out of Kuryakin's reach. His partner seemed to be puzzling over that question himself as he rubbed the chafed skin around his wrists.

"If I lift you," he said eventually, "do you think you can maneuver your cuffs off the hook?"

Napoleon's first impulse was to ask the sub if he actually could lift him, but when he thought back on the last few moments Napoleon knew that was a foolish question. The real question, which he knew should have been irrelevant, was whether a sub had any business lifting a Top —whether it was right that a Top should be helpless while a sub was able. If they'd both been Tops the question never would have come up, Napoleon reminded himself, and hadn't he told himself that it would be better to think of his new partner simply as another agent, and not as a sub? It seemed that Napoleon was having a harder time with that paradigm than his sub partner.

"Let's, um, give it a try," Napoleon finally said, aware that he'd hesitated longer than he ought. He braced himself as Kuryakin's strong arms wrapped around his hips and lifted, and then focused all his attention on getting his cuffed hands free. The task was, for the most part, consuming enough, but the second he got the chain unhooked and his arms dropped, he became aware of the warm, strong embrace of his partner, and felt a passing surge of mixed but definitely mission inappropriate feelings wash through him. Then the pain in his overtasked shoulders kicked in and all his focus returned to the mission once more.

Kuryakin was even faster with Napoleon's cuffs than his own and soon Napoleon was shaking the feeling back into his hands and strategizing their next move. They agreed on a tried but true approach and returned to their positions while Napoleon did a good job of sounding frightened and desperate as he called out to the guards that he was ready to talk now. The ruse worked like a charm and after a brief scuffle they had their cell door unlocked and a couple of THRUSH uniforms to disguise themselves with to boot. Their luck held as they passed the deserted guard station where they found their communicators and other various items from their pockets.

From that point, everything proceeded so typically that Napoleon essentially forgot that his partner was a sub. After a few wrong turns, they found their way to the laboratory where the the weapon was located, bluffed their way in and immobilized the couple of engineers working there. It was almost charming to see the relish with which Kuryakin fell to the task of extracting the critical unit from the larger device, but Napoleon's task must now be to stand guard at the door, which he did until the inevitable alarm sounded. Then it was a matter of keeping the THRUSHies away until his partner finished, which gradually became more and more complicated as more and more gunmen crowded into the corridor outside the lab.

"Any time now partner," Napoleon quipped, pausing to reload as the bullets flew past, chipping away at the lab bench he was taking cover behind.

"Of course," Kuryakin quipped right back. "I will just disregard a few laws of physics here, and I'll be right with you..." But he was right at Napoleon's side soon enough —the module stashed in someone's glasses case and tucked into his pocket— and with only a few half completed sentences and significant looks they'd concocted their next move. This consisted of confusing the foe with a couple of Napoleon's exploding cuff buttons (overlooked by the guards who'd strip searched them so efficiently) and then making their exit through the heating ducts.

Eventually exiting the ductwork, they dropped down into a sort of locker room where they surprised, and were surprised by, a couple of guards just coming on shift. One of them got off a lucky shot before Kuryakin plugged him, and winged Napoleon, who swore loudly but knew the wound to be superficial. Napoleon dropped the other guard, not pausing to bind his injury, and gesturing his partner forward when he looked as if he wanted to do just that.

"It'll keep," Napoleon said, "and we need to clear out now."

For the briefest of seconds Kuryakin looked unhappy about this, but then nodded curtly and made for the door. He was just in time to catch the two outer guards headed toward the locker room and eliminated both before they even raised their guns. Then the way was clear for them to dash outside, past the deserted guard post and over to where a small transport vehicle was parked.

"How fast can you hotwire a car?" Napoleon asked, testing the driver's side door and finding it unlocked.

"Faster than you," Kuryakin replied, already pushing past him to do just that. Napoleon allowed as to how he was probably right and stood guard, glancing back at the crumbling facade of the former medieval fortress and manor house which had lately become a THRUSH satrap. By the time he had completed a 360 degree reconnoiter of the surroundings Napoleon heard the olive drab Zastava cough to life and he looked down to see his partner already sliding over to the passenger seat. The Russian might be better at technical matters but they both knew that Napoleon Solo was the undisputed master of UNCLE's defensive driving course.

Even without pursuit, the ill maintained and twisting roads through the Yugoslav Alps demanded nothing less than expert driving skills. Napoleon knew he could rely on Kuryakin to attend to any gunplay, which was good, as the road demanded one hundred and ten percent of his attention, especially after their pursuers began to try running them off the road. Oh how Napoleon did not relish playing 'chicken' on such roads as this, especially not with bullets flying and his partner occasionally leaning across him to shoot out of the driver's side window.

Between his expert driving, however, and Kuryakin's expert shooting, they managed to hold the enemy at bay and eventually the Russian actually put a bullet in the driver of the pursuit car, just as they were coming around a sharp curve. Napoleon watched dispassionately through the rearview mirror as the car full of Thrushies failed to make the turn and plunged over the precipitous embankment to burst into flames far below. He did not have the luxury of relaxing for even a second following their enemy's demise, however, as Napoleon now came to notice that their own car's brakes were not responding as they should. No surprise, really, that among all the flying bullets, one had nicked something critical in the brake lines.

"Brace for impact!" he shouted as he sought to slow the car by downshifting, without skidding on the gravel road and while maneuvering them around yet another hairpin turn. There! A smaller, disused road —probably for logging— peeled off to the right and Napoleon aimed for it, as well as he could at the speeds they were going. The car barreled off the main road, careened off the rocky embankment above them to the right, ricocheted back to the left, off the road, then plunged down the steep slope, rolling over once, twice, and finally coming to a rest.

The sudden silence was almost shocking. Napoleon's head hurt. His arm hurt and his sleeve was clammy and stiff with half dried blood. Also his ribs hurt, but he was alive, and when he drew a carefully tentative breath he observed that while they ached, his ribs did not seem to be broken. His neck was not suspiciously stiff either, and so he hazarded a look around. The first thing he noticed was that the passenger side door was open —no, strike that. It was torn off, and the passenger seat was empty.

Feeling an unexpected lurch of dread, Napoleon scanned the area just beyond the missing door for any sign of his partner, but saw nothing. He cautiously extracted himself from the car, deliberately not thinking of all the terrible things that could happen to someone thrown from a car in circumstances such as this. He scanned the forest floor near the broken vehicle, then the general vicinity. Looking up along the trail of broken tree limbs and disturbed earth that marked their fall, the road seemed impossibly far above them. There was no sign of his partner anywhere along that track.

"Kuryakin!" Napoleon shouted, having come to the conclusion that no THRUSH pursuers had followed them this far. There was no answer. "Illya!" he called, louder still, without thinking. "If you can hear me, make a sound!"

Napoleon stilled, waiting in silence for any answer, and after a long moment heard a soft moan. Did it come from over there, to the right? Napoleon moved forward toward where he thought the sound had come from, scanning the ground, trees, bushes, for any sign of his partner. "Illya! Make another sound! I can't find you!"

There was another groan, a gasp and then, "Napoleon! I'm here and I am fine... in a manner of speaking."

Zeroing in on the sound, Napoleon finally spotted him, fetched up against a large stand of ferns and brush, and half covered in leaves.

"Great job of camouflage there partner," Napoleon greeted him wryly, dropping to one knee to begin brushing away the unwanted foliage.

"Yes, well, I was taught never to miss an opportunity to blend into the background," the Russian said wryly, shaking himself and then wincing. Only now did Napoleon notice that he had a long gash on his temple, blood seeping into his fair hair.

"You sure you're okay?" Napoleon asked.

"Help me up and I'll tell you," Illya said crossly, grabbing ahold of Napoleon's wrist. Napoleon stood and hauled his partner to his feet, but as Illya started to put weight on his right leg he winced and drew in a sharp breath, muttering a word which Napoleon's Russian tutor had taught him, but told him never to utter in public. Napoleon winced in sympathy.

"Is it broken?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Illya said —and how had Napoleon suddenly started thinking of him as 'Illya' instead of 'Kuryakin'? "But I'm not sure. Here, help me over to that rock."

Carefully examining Illya's ankle, once he'd gotten situated on the nearby boulder, Napoleon saw that it was swollen, but detected no grating bones or troubling discoloration. Luckily the boots they'd stolen from their THRUSH guards had been high tops, and would contain the swelling to some extent.

"Looks like you're right," Napoleon said, dusting his hands off. "Seems to be a bad sprain but nothing worse. Still, you're going to want to keep the weight off it as much as possible."

"The operating phrase being, 'as much as possible'," Illya said with a snort. "And stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Napoleon said, honestly mystified.

"Like a 'big concerned Top' looking at a 'helpless little sub'," the Russian replied with a deep scowl.

"I wasn't!" Napoleon objected. "I mean, I didn't mean to..."

"You never 'mean to'," Illya grumbled and Napoleon heard the collective 'you Tops' in his complaint. Napoleon knew there was nothing he could say to this, but only took Illya's proffered hand and helped him to his feet.

They rifled through the contents of the wrecked transport before they departed, finding a single canteen, a first aid kit and some blankets, before they headed back up the slope toward the road, walking arm in arm until they spotted a stick suitable for Illya to use as a crutch. Getting them both up the last stretch below the old logging road still required quite a bit of very close contact, but Napoleon did his best to keep his touches professional, remembering Illya's disapproving scowl. Once on the old road the going was easier, and they were encouraged to find that a berm of dirt and rocks had been piled across the road a few hundred feet up it, guaranteeing that no one had come this way for some time.

When the road attained a summit of sorts they tried their communicators and made a spotty but sufficient connection with UNCLE headquarters. An extraction team could come for them, but it would be a day or three, and they should find some place to lie low for the nonce. Napoleon figured they might scout the area for a cave or shelter of some sort, or failing that, make a some sort of rough bivouac. It might not be comfortable, but they'd both (apparently) had training for this sort of survival situation and shouldn't have too much trouble... unless the weather made a sudden turn for the worse.

They camped beside the old road that night, thankful for the blankets and the fact that Napoleon never went anywhere without his Zippo. The next day, sometime around mid morning, they had a real stroke of luck and spotted an old, abandoned cabin in a forested valley below the road. Approaching with caution, they quickly confirmed that it was truly abandoned, the many signs of obvious neglect reassuring both the agents.

Inside, they had to learn to navigate around the rotten spots in the floor but otherwise found the place perfectly suited to their needs. There was a rubbish filled fireplace which Illya immediately began clearing out, a rough table with two rickety chairs, and a set of pantry shelves where a handful of tins —all either ominously swollen or leaking rusty putrescence— remained. Napoleon gathered them up carefully and tossed them out into the forest and returned with an armload of firewood which the fireplace was ready for by then.

Illya had the fire blazing away cheerfully when Napoleon returned with a second armload of wood and the canteen filled with water from a nearby stream. The place was looking downright homey in the light of the fire, and now Illya insisted on cleaning and bandaging Napoleon's gunshot wound. Napoleon reciprocated with the gash on Illya's head, washing the blood out of his hair and cleaning it with antiseptic from the first aid kit. Wounds tended and absent food, the next thing Napoleon looked for was a comfortable place to sleep. There was a bed in the corner, its mattress disgusting with mildew and mouse nests and Napoleon managed to manhandle it outside on his own.

Beneath the mattress was a set of rusty but serviceable springs and once they had laid the cabin's motheaten carpet over them, it made a relatively comfortable bed —certainly a damn sight more comfortable than the roadside had been last night, or the moist and spongy floor of the cabin would be. By the time they had managed all of this a chill wind had come up and both Napoleon and Illya were tired and cold enough to just build up the fire and crawl into their jury-rigged bed. Huddling together under the four blankets they'd procured from the transport, they were both warm and comfortable enough to drop immediately to sleep, without a single thought about whether Napoleon's arm around Illya's waist, or Illya's face tucked just under Napoleon's chin, was 'appropriate' or not.

 

"I'm going to go look for some berries," Illya announced the next day, standing by the door, makeshift crutch in hand. It had begun raining early that morning, and no one was surprised to find that the roof leaked like a sieve. They'd moved the bed out of the way of the worst of them and then found some rusty pots and pans to catch what they could. They were both, by now, seriously missing food, but Illya didn't seem to find it necessary to fill his partner in on his plans until Napoleon asked him where he was going.

"I would not have made it past the age of ten if I didn't know how to tell good forest berries from bad," he explained further when Napoleon expressed doubts. "And now is actually one of the best times of year to find them."

Napoleon accompanied him, naturally, carrying one of the less rusty pots from the cabin, and was surprised at how quickly Illya spotted enough various forest fruits to fill the thing more than halfway. They were pretty tart, many of them, but Napoleon was hungry and grateful to have anything, even if he did end up with a mild case of what his cousin Clem had referred to as the 'green apple quick-step' a little later. Illya ate more deliberately —as someone who had experience with deprivation might, Napoleon reflected— and managed to avoid such ill effects.

After the relief of having escaped, found shelter and filled their bellies had worn off, however, boredom began to set in. They'd radioed their new location in to headquarters after their 'meal' that afternoon and been told to expect an extraction team to meet them in three days or so, if all went well. They would need to stay alert, as the smoke coming from the chimney of this long abandoned shack might well be noticed should THRUSH come looking for them here, and having some purposeful task, Napoleon knew, would help them both to stay on their toes.

Illya had gone to cut some brush from just outside their cabin and was now assembling something that looked to be a broom. Napoleon hit upon his own idea a little later and began cutting a chessboard grid into the surface of the table. When that was done he found a handful of small branches and began to carve them into some semblance of chess pieces. It was peaceful, with the sound of the rain falling on the roof and plinking into the various pots and pans inside the cabin, but Napoleon soon found himself craving conversation.

"So," he began tentatively. "Did they teach you escape artistry in the KGB?"

Illya gave a huff or dry laughter, but did not look up from his broom. "That wasn't escape artistry, you buffoon," he said. "That was gymnastics."

"Gymnastics?" Napoleon prompted. "Tell me more."

Illya made a face, as if considering whether to comply, then gave a long suffering sort of sigh and did. "I was on the Soviet Olympic gymnastics team when I was fifteen," he said at last.

"And did you get in? To the Olympics I mean," Napoleon inquired.

"No," the Russian said with a resigned sigh. "The coach was my Top at the time —he took all the subs on the team as his 'own'— and he took me off the team when I failed to please him. Overall he spent much more time and attention training the subs to do his bidding in the bedroom than becoming excellent gymnasts, and in the end the gymnastics team did not win so much as a single bronze medal that year. I understand that his next assignment was training fourth graders in a public school in Siberia, but I joined the Navy and found that career far more satisfying."

"And what was so satisfying about the Navy?" Napoleon pressed and now Illya looked up to meet his gaze.

"Because they let me study science, of course." he replied.

"Of course," Napoleon answered, feeling sure that some additional fact had been left out here, but not able to say what.

"Now you must give me a story," Illya insisted. "I think you have crashed in a plane before. Tell me about it."

"Fair enough," Napoleon said, because Illya was right, on both counts. He told his partner the story of his last mission as a pilot in the Korean War, and how he had crashed behind enemy lines and spent five days trekking across the jungle with his wounded gunner. It was a story he generally told to impress other Tops, for he found that it tended to frighten and dismay his subs. Illya, however, seemed to find it engaging and admirable, though he avoided expressing any outright admiration for Napoleon, naturally.

Illya made a sort of porridge out of the remaining berries for dinner that night, which made it into a hot meal that they both appreciated. They went to bed when it became too dark to carve more chess pieces, curling together for warmth as they had the night before without a word.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

The rain had let up by the next morning and Napoleon determined that —no THRUSH having shown themselves so far— they could afford to expend a little ordinance on fresh meat. A brief foray into the forest resulted in a satisfyingly plump hare, which Illya cooked up with a few more berries and some wild garlic he'd found growing in the vicinity.

"Well, hunger is the best sauce, as my grandmother used to say," Illya replied to Napoleon's comment that it was possibly the best meal he'd ever eaten in his life.

"You mean, 'appetite is the best seasoning'?" Napoleon said.

"Hmm..." Illya said, mouth full of rabbit. "Much the same meaning, but not what my grandmother said, which, in the first place, was in Ukrainian."

And I'll bet you had that 'sauce' a lot, Napoleon thought to himself, watching the way Illya savored each bite of his food. After they'd gnawed every scrap of meat off the bones, Illya put them in a pot of water by the fire with more wild garlic to make soup. Napoleon returned to carving his chess set and Illya tidied, putting his new broom to use in clearing away countless winters worth of forest debris and mouse droppings.

He wasn't exactly keeping off his sprained ankle but Napoleon knew better than to point that out to him. He was keeping busy, as Napoleon was, and he'd take it easy once they were back in civilization. Still, Napoleon was glad when he set the broom in a corner and limped over to the table where Napoleon was finishing up the last of the chess pieces —partially because his partner was finally giving his ankle a rest, and partially because he'd been looking forward to a chess match with Illya practically from the beginning.

"I haven't even bothered to ask you if you play..." he began, setting up the pieces. Illya examined Napoleon's work briefly, then helped Napoleon lay out the rest of the board.

"That is because you are not entirely stupid," Illya said with a derisive smirk. "Just how not stupid you are, we will see shortly." Never in his life had Napoleon received a chess challenge that so fired his blood.

Just as they'd done with their Judo match, the two agents began the game by testing each other. They swapped pawns here and there, tried various feints and probed each other's knowledge of the more classic gambits, and soon came to the conclusion that they were fairly evenly matched. It was only with reluctance that they paused the game around dusk for Napoleon to go gather another few armloads of firewood and for Illya to stir and tinker with the soup.

When full dark fell they moved the table closer to the fire to continue playing by its light, and took turns drinking soup out of the single serviceable tin cup. Unlike previously, they did not turn towards bed when the night grew colder, but instead wrapped blankets over their shoulders and continued with the game, each bent on mastering the other.

They continued playing into the small hours, neither wishing to pause the game until one of them had attained a decisive lead, but they remained evenly matched. Somewhere around one thirty in the morning Napoleon made a desperate play for one of Illya's bishops and lost a rook in exchange, and shortly thereafter realized that he was having a hard time keeping his eyes focused.

"Ordinarily I'd go and make a pot of coffee about now," he said, rubbing his eyes. Illya nodded, letting loose a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Indeed," Illya admitted. "But under the present circumstances, perhaps we'd better just go to bed."

Certainly Napoleon's flesh was willing. His body had been craving sleep for some time, but his mind... his mind wanted to grab this brilliant, impertinent sub and kiss the living daylights out of him. He wanted to tie Illya Kuryakin up and spank him and then fuck him until they were both drunk with the sheer pleasure of it —the mere testing of their wills in this chess match had driven him to such a state. He was half hard just thinking about it, and he was pretty sure that Illya was too.

This theory was supported by the way Illya kept his back turned while they prepared for sleep, and even tried settling into bed back to back. It was just too cold to keep that up for long, however, and since the cold had done away with any reason for this position after only a few minutes, they soon returned to the close embrace of their previous nights. Napoleon kept his gloating entirely internal, but he did feel a small sense of triumph at being allowed once again to hold this recalcitrant sub in his arms. Illya might not be his —might never be his— but for a few blissful hours Napoleon could imagine that he was.

 

The extraction team arrived the next morning. They were both up by then, and Napoleon was out gathering a few more berries for breakfast when he heard the approaching horses. It seemed novel to send help via horseback, but it made sense in navigating these Alpine back roads without raising too much notice, and it certainly made travel easier for Illya. They left the unfinished chess game sitting on the table, though Illya declared that he had a photographic memory and they they could pick it up again once they were back in New York. Napoleon believed him and said so, and spent the better part of their horseback journey to the border planning strategies to defeat his partner.

The trip took the whole day, and they made the border crossing from Yugoslavia to Austria in the dead of night. There were cars and hot coffee waiting for them just on the other side of the border, however, and after a two and a half hour drive which both agents mainly slept through, medical care, hot showers and soft, clean beds to sleep in at UNCLE headquarters in Vienna.

There were also congratulations waiting for them from Waverly when they woke, and plane tickets back to New York. Illya allowed the Vienna scientists to have a look at the module they'd extracted from the THRUSH weapon, but he refused to let it out of his sight and smiled with haughty satisfaction when the order came through that he would take it back to New York with him. Napoleon felt silly at harboring feelings of jealousy for a small piece of technology, but he could not deny them.

He actually had to remind himself to flirt with the air stewards on their flight to New York, and then wondered why he bothered because Illya was either asleep or lost in some technical specs he'd picked up from the scientists in UNCLE Vienna. Then he wondered why and when Illya had become his reason for flirting and this made his head hurt and so he mainly tried to sleep.

Once in New York Illya promptly disappeared into his lab, leaving Napoleon to deal with all the reports and paperwork. Napoleon appreciated that Master Waverly was not the sort to say 'I told you so,' as he read over Napoleon's reports, including repeated commendations for Kuryakin's accounting of himself, with only the occasional curt nod of approval. Napoleon was also grateful for his and Illya's unfinished chess game, as it gave him any reason to contact the man outside of work, seeing as how any kind of play date was off the table, as was the pursuit of any other sort of intimate relationship.

It was, in fact, four days before Napoleon even had the chance to speak to Illya long enough to confirm that he was still interested in completing the game, and that they could make a date to finish it in a club Illya knew of, called the 'Sub Station'. It was a well known 'sub club' down in the Village, reputed to be an beatnik hangout as well as a meeting point for a lot of sub-lib types. Napoleon didn't see Illya Kuryakin as one of those militant, humorless 'libbies' but he did understand that they made the club a safe place for him, and neutral territory where they could meet without aspersions being cast. They also had chess sets for the use of their patrons.

They met on the following Friday, when they were both able to get away from work a little before five. Illya seemed fairly well known at the place and was greeted cordially by the waitstaff and a few of the customers.

"Your usual?" asked the waiter as they made their way to a back table. Illya shook his head, pausing at a shelf where he picked up a well worn chess set.

"No vodka tonight," he said, indicating the chess box in his hand. "Or at least, not till I've given this gentleman a thorough trouncing. Until then I'll need my wits about me."

"Wow, sounds like you've got yourself a half decent opponent today, Mr Kuryakin," said a shaven headed girl leaning over the pass bar from the kitchen.

"Quite possibly," Illya said archly. Napoleon knew he should be flattered, and was in a way, but he also felt just a touch patronized somehow. Perhaps it was because he was the only Top in the place, which was a novel situation for him.

Once they settled down into the game, however, no one bothered them. They both got beers, which they nursed, and after about an hour Illya ordered them each a burger and fries, which were prepared more than satisfactorily. Napoleon did not miss how the waiter's eyes lingered on the board, however, as did the bus boy's. He knew that their game was being discussed in hushed tones over in the front of the cafe, but he didn't care. He and Illya were deep into the game now, and it was an intellectual struggle to the death.

Napoleon thought he might surprise Illya by making an aggressive start, and he did manage to capture one of Illya's knights early on, but he couldn't seem to press any advantage from it and after a dozen or so more moves Illya captured his second rook. This put Napoleon on the defensive, but he knew he was at his most dangerous when on the defensive and so now it was Illya who gained no advantage from his small victory. Thus the game went, with some small advantage see-sawing back and forth over the hours.

As time went on some of the staff became quite brazen about coming over just to see how the game was going, but neither man took any notice whatsoever. They'd each had another beer with dinner but now both were drinking only coffee —which was also creditably brewed— and were by now on their fourth or fifth cup. Napoleon was aware in passing that the midnight hour had come and gone some time back, but hadn't considered any implications until he shuddered at the lack of warmth in his last swallow of coffee and woke to the lateness of the hour.

"Illya," he said in a low voice, glancing around to notice, for the first time, that he and Illya were the only customers in the place. "What time do these guys usually close?"

"Oh don't you boys worry about that," said the waiter, a ruggedly handsome sub named Edward who Napoleon thought might also be the owner. "I'd never interrupt a game like this, and I'm not leaving till I see who wins anyhow."

"Yes, well," said Illya, gravelly voiced with fatigue and too much coffee, "I'm very much afraid that's going to be nobody."

Napoleon nodded, unsurprised. They'd badgered each other down to about half their pieces by now, but had both been playing so defensively in the last few hours that a stalemate was almost inevitable. They kept at it a few more rounds, but it soon became clear that both their kings were hopelessly boxed in and that Illya's prediction was correct.

"It's no good," Illya said at last, scrubbing at his face. "No one is going to win this game."

"No, I think you're right," Napoleon said, stretching. "It's a stalemate for sure. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on a rematch. Next Friday, same time?"

Napoleon did not fail to note that the first expression to cross Illya's features was a flash of suspicion. Illya Kuryakin had, Napoleon guessed, too much experience with being 'boxed in', as his king had been, and guarded against it vigilantly. That expression passed quickly, however, and was replaced by a slow, very private smile which went straight to Napoleon's heart... as well as other places.

"I suppose that will do," he said, clearing the board.

"Can I sell tickets?" asked Edward the owner/waiter. Illya's responding glare was of such arctic intensity that Napoleon wondered if the room temperature oughtn't to have dropped a degree or two. Edward threw his hands up in surrender immediately and backed away.

"Alright, alright," he said. "Your secret's safe with me, and with Cindy and Gail too." He shot significant looks over his shoulder to the other two kitchen staff who'd remained behind to watch the conclusion of the game. They both nodded solemnly, and Illya's scowl softened to a look of satisfaction.

"Very well," Illya said. "See that it is." The words were said with such self assured authority, Napoleon reflected on the cab ride home. Almost as if he _hadn't_ really been the only Top in the club that night at all.

Oddly, the fact of their stalemate in that game left Napoleon feeling more 'unfinished' the following week, than when they'd actually had an unfinished game between them. That game had still had the potential to be resolved, but now that it had played out to a stalemate it could never be resolved. Napoleon felt that he _needed_ to try again with Illya, and that he needed even more for the game _not_ to resolve in a stalemate.

This was the reason for his almost desperately aggressive approach to their next game. Napoleon went on the attack from the beginning, and while the initial results were nearly disastrous for him, he only stepped up his attacks and soon made a shambles of Illya's carefully reasoned defenses. Napoleon hardly remembered eating, and refrained from any alcohol that evening, keeping his focus on the game razor sharp. Thus it was that his defeat came as a sudden and devastating shock.

He'd taken dozens of irresponsible risks in his game that night but now Illya had caught him in his last. Napoleon's king was surrounded, check and mate, and he felt unaccountably as if the carpet had been pulled out from under his feet.

"Check and mate," he repeated dumbly, tipping over his king. "Damn, I didn't see that coming."

"No?" asked Illya, gracious in victory. "Never have I had to work so hard for a win, Napoleon. You are to be congratulated, truly."

"Well then," said Napoleon as they shook hands. "I hope you'll grant me the chance to regain my honor next week?"

"No honor was lost in this game," Illya said with a smile, "but I would enjoy another challenge from you next week, most certainly."

Napoleon smiled in return, the patented, 'water off a duck's back' smile he used so often when things had not gone his way, but inside he was reeling with relief. Not only that he would have another chance to beat the man at chess, but that Illya seemed pleased to go on seeing him, in this capacity at least. Napoleon spent the weekend musing over his next strategy, but when he came to work on Monday he was given another preoccupation. Waverly had a new mission for him.

 

Finland was not a destination Napoleon would have chosen in October, but then the choice of destinations was never his, and at least this did seem like more of an indoor mission, with an emphasis on diplomatic skills. Seems there'd been a series of provocative 'incidents' near the Finnish-Russian border, in the vicinity of the town of Imatra, probably carried out by a group of Karelian nationalists. There appeared to be a danger of escalation, possibly leading to war, and it was Waverly's opinion that THRUSH provocateurs might well have a hand in things. Napoleon's mission was to prove or disprove this theory, ferret out any THRUSH operatives if true, and generally cool things down.

Waverly figured Napoleon could do this on his own, and Napoleon figured that he was right, aware that Waverly wanted him to hone as wide an array of skills as possible. Napoleon did his research diligently, putting all thoughts of chess and Illya on the back burner till the mission was complete. He felt confident, though carefully not overconfident, as he spent the flight to Helsinki studying and not flirting with the flight staff.

Two days later, he was still feeling upbeat, having met and won the confidence of the local Karelian Cultural Association, which served as a front for some of the more militant elements locally. He'd met most of the likely ringleaders and was in the midst of composing profiles of each of them —the first step to locating the likely THRUSH operative. He'd spent five solid hours in his hotel room working on those profiles and now, having made good progress, Napoleon determined that he could afford an hour or three on more pleasant pursuits.

Hotel bars were always an excellent place to pick up subs for a night of play with no strings attached, and that was exactly what Napoleon Solo was in the mood for. He dressed carefully, wanting to be eye catching, but only in the most tasteful of ways. Tailored black wool slacks kept the look restrained, while the well equipped belt (flogger, handcuffs, riding crop and nipple clamps, among other things) and leather vest said 'no nonsense'. The open collar of his silk dress shirt, exposing a well formed physique said 'notice me', while single diamond stud in his ear said, 'class act, all the way'. It was a look Napoleon Solo had honed to perfection years ago, and one which had never failed to win him the sub of his choice in any venue.

There could be no doubt of his choice the moment he entered and spotted the platinum blonde beauty perched at the end of the bar. She was here for him and none other, Napoleon immediately determined, and strode confidently up to stand beside her at the bar. The barman appeared before him in an instant, naturally, and waited attentively for Napoleon's request.

"Whiskey soda, if you please," he said, "and be so kind as to ask the lady what she'll have."

"I'd have a gin and tonic," the woman replied to the barman's glance," but only if I know who's buying." She turned to regard Napoleon directly, and gave him the chance to see what was on offer. A sleeveless blue satin sheath covered much of what lay between her cleavage and upper thighs, but left little to the imagination. A black and green leather corset was revealed beneath the satin and black vinyl boots enclosed her very long and shapely legs almost up to her hem.

So the dance begins, Napoleon thought, turning to face the woman, wearing his most dazzling smile. "Napoleon Solo, your Top for the evening, should you have me," he said.

She offered him her hand, and a smile as beguiling as his was brilliant. "Angelique Oiseau," she said, "and I am most pleased to be yours for the night."

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger/squick warning. See notes at end for details.

Napoleon refused to believe in omens, but he would reflect later that there had maybe been some portent in his chess defeat to Illya. Certainly the sense of having the carpet pulled out from under him was oddly familiar. One minute he'd been laying on his back, letting Angelique ride him —as an indulgence, he'd thought— and he'd let himself toy with that dangerous fantasy. Arms stretched out above his head, he'd grabbed ahold of the bars of the bedstead, imagining his hands to be bound there, and pulled against them, feeling an illicit thrill run though him at the thought. Then, all at once, it was not just his imagination at all.

There'd been a soft, fizzing pop and the sensation of some sort of foam hitting and covering his hands where they clung to the bedframe. Before he could react, the foam had solidified, trapping his hands and binding him in truth. It was what she had done next, however, that completely undid him, for Angelique had put a collar on him. It was a restraint collar, no less, with a pair of chains by which it could be fastened to the sides of the bed, and the infernal creature still riding his cock had moved with such blinding swiftness that Napoleon was bound, hand and neck, before he even knew what was happening.

Even so bound, Napoleon might have put up more of a fight, but there was something so shattering about having been collared. He couldn't seem to find the fight in himself, and the next thing he knew he had his ankles cuffed to a spreader bar and hoisted up, so that he was entirely immobilized and utterly exposed. Helpless. Usually being made physically helpless infuriated him, but for some reason on this night he just felt lost... possibly because, in spite of everything, he was still hard as a rock.

She'd stood back and admired him when he was all well and truly trussed up, frighteningly magnificent in her black and green corset and stiletto boots and tapping Napoleon's riding crop against one of those boots. She'd praised him and called him a 'good boy' for 'keeping it up', as if it was by Napoleon's design... and yet at the same time some part of him thrilled at the praise. She'd put a cock ring on him and told him he was forbidden to come until she permitted it... and a part of him had felt something like sweet relief.

Through all this, aside from a single wordless cry of startlement he'd made when his hands had first become trapped, Napoleon had uttered not a word, as though something had become trapped in his throat when the collar was placed around it. He'd made no sound when when Angelique smacked his thighs a few times with the riding crop. He'd thought, she can't really hurt me; she can't possibly be strong enough, but then she'd set down the crop, saying something about not leaving any marks, and gotten out the leather paddle.

As a young man, Napoleon had received private Dom tutoring, as had most young Tops of Napoleon's social circle. His tutor, Master Giuseppe, had been of the school of thought that Tops should never allow themselves to experience any of the sorts of punishments their subs experienced, as any such experience would feel fundamentally different to a Top, and it would only give him or her wrong-headed ideas about how to treat their subs. Napoleon had held unthinkingly to that notion all his life, but he never would again.

There was no doubt at all in Napoleon's mind that for that hour or two under Angelique's not-so-gentle ministrations, he'd _been_ a sub, body and soul. He'd writhed and arched his back like as sub, as she'd struck him with the paddle again and again. He'd suddenly found his voice loosed by the building fire in his backside, moaning and gasping like a sub, and his bound and erect cock had shuddered and leaked precum, just like a sub's. He'd begged, just like a sub (reeling with shock to hear his own voice) for her not to put the nipple clamps on him, but she hadn't listened to him any more than he generally did when his subs begged.

Then, with his ass burning from the paddling and his chest on fire from the sharp, pinching bite of the clamps, Angelique had brought the point home in the most fundamental way possible, and she'd fucked him. The strap-on she'd used had been large, but not excessively so, and she'd stretched him first. ("I told you, I wouldn't hurt you in any way that leaves marks," she'd cooed, pressing three slender, lube covered fingers into him.) She'd made sure Napoleon got a good look at the dildo though, pressing it up to his lips, and rubbing it over the nipple clamps, renewing the fire there and making him arch his back and cry out in pain... and ecstasy.

Napoleon was no stranger to anal penetration; Master Giuseppe had made it clear that Napoleon should enjoy all the pleasures his body had to offer, but he'd never really been fucked before. Even now he couldn't quite say what the difference was, but no cock or dildo he'd ever had inside him had ever done to him what Angelique had done to him that night. Napoleon didn't so much have any clear train of memories from that point, but continued to be assaulted by a series of impressions —of moaning and sobbing, hearing the sounds come out of his throat as if it were not his voice at all; of the collar catching him in the neck as he thrashed his head this way and that; of the driving rhythm of Angelique's dildo penetrating him again and again...

It seemed she'd taken some pleasure of her own, though it had nothing to do with him, other than it was him she was using. (And why had it made him harder still, to know that he was being used?) When she'd done with fucking him, she'd leaned forward between his legs —dildo still deep inside him— stroking down his torso with her nails like claws, and she'd breathed over his straining cock, stroking and caressing it like it was hers.

"Does it want to come, poor little thing?" she'd fawned. "I suppose it _almost_ deserves to. If I take this ring off now, does it think it can hold it for thirty whole seconds? Tell me..." and she'd glanced up to meet Napoleon's eyes, demanding an answer in her mere look.

"Please..." Napoleon had begged, voice rough with strain. "Please, I... it can... please..."

"Alright," she said, "but don't you dare displease me!" And Napoleon did not want to displease her; he didn't, though he had no idea why. He'd moaned when she removed the cock ring, panted and gasped with the effort of not coming. Then, evil creature that she was, Angelique had thrust the dildo inside him again, pressing cruelly against his prostate, and Napoleon had whimpered... and held it, just for her.

Thirty of the longest seconds of his life later, she'd leaned over him and whispered, "Come," while thrusting her dildo deep inside him and he had come, helplessly, and with terrifying intensity. He'd returned to himself to find her putting her clothes back on, telling him something about how the foam securing his hands would break down in another ten minutes or so, and shouldn't have any untoward effects. Then there had been the sound of his hotel room door closing and he was alone... and ten minutes later his hands had come free.

He'd dashed to the bathroom the second he had the last of his shackles undone, sure that he was about to puke his guts out, but then he'd stood over the toilet for several minutes waiting for something that apparently wasn't going to happen. Perhaps he only wanted it to happen, wanted to symbolically purge the last two hours from his body, but that, he realized now, was never going to happen. He could never unlive the experience, never unfeel what he had felt, any more than he could take back the words he'd said and sounds he'd made.

Napoleon had turned to look at himself in the bathroom mirror then, certain that something from the experience must show on his face. This he did not see, but he did see the calling card, tucked into the mirror's frame. Her name, Angelique, was printed in florid script on one side, and by the time Napoleon had removed the card from the mirror and begun to turn it over, he already knew what he would see on the other side: the silhouette of a bird, beak open, as if to strike.

Napoleon was not quite sure how he came to be sitting naked on the bathroom floor with his head in his hands, nor how many hours he'd spent there, when his alarm went off. The sound came like a splash of cold water, as a needed reminder that life went on. He had a mission, an important one. The world was counting on him, and he knew that to be no exaggeration. That was the knowledge that got him off the bathroom floor, and into the disheveled, sex smelling bedroom.

By focusing on his long term goal, he managed to put the room to order, gathering up his toys, taking down the spreader bar, cleaning the strange sticky residue left on the bed frame, where his hands had been stuck. Going through the most familiar of motions, he showered and dressed himself and then made his way down to breakfast, strolling quickly past the darkened bar before entering the restaurant.

He reread the profiles he'd begun last night over breakfast, and after breakfast sat himself down in the hotel lounge to work on them some more. Around midday he took a taxi to the Karelian Cultural Center and got himself invited to lunch there, and by that evening he'd met again with every one of the most active of the rabble rousers. He took his notes back to the hotel restaurant where he read over them again over dinner and then returned to the lounge and rewrote all his profiles, so thoroughly that by the time he was done the THRUSH operative was clear.

It was around one thirty in the morning when he went back to his room (where he had left the window open all day) and called in to UNCLE Helsinki to tell them what he had determined. He called UNCLE New York next, just to check in, then showered and fell into a bed upon which all the linens had (thankfully) been changed. Given the fact that he'd had little or no sleep the night before, and had driven himself hard all day today, Napoleon ought to have dropped off to sleep immediately, but visions and memories from the night before intruded on his well ordered thoughts in that vulnerable space before sleep, and kept sleep at bay for an hour or more.

This boded ill for the future, Napoleon knew perfectly well, but he refused to dwell on it. He felt grateful when his fatigue finally won out, and dismay when his communicator roused him early the next morning. It was good news, however, for UNCLE Helsinki had put a tail on Napoleon's chief suspect last night and followed him to a poorly guarded THRUSH satrap early this morning. Plans for the provoking of an international incident on the border here had been uncovered, as part of an overall plan of international destabilization, and copies of the critical features of this plan would be delivered to Napoleon over breakfast, so that he could use this evidence to pour cold water on the rest of the hotheads in the cultural association.

Napoleon's attention to detail was flawless as he closed down the remainder of the affair. Once he'd left the rebellious Karelian nationalists well and truly chastened, he traveled back to Helsinki where he made a thorough report to the UNCLE offices there. They had his plane tickets back to New York for the next morning, so he bought himself a bottle of whisky and made sure to have a nice _big_ nightcap before retiring for the night. It sort of worked.

On the flight back to New York he actually got ahead on his paperwork (which should have had Master Waverly pulling him aside and asking him who he was and what he'd done with the real Napoleon Solo) and ordered drinks without flirting with anybody. He arrived back in New York holding on to the feeble hope that being back in his home environs would banish the recurrent memories of his night with Angelique, but it was only a feeble hope. He made sure to stop at a liquor store on the way home regardless.

Back at work, Master Waverly had nothing but good things to say about Napoleon's work on the 'Finnish Borderlands Affair'. He even asked Napoleon's permission to use the profiles he'd written (with critical information redacted, naturally) in the UNCLE training manual. Napoleon agreed graciously while silently wondering how Waverly didn't see Angelique's handprints all over him. How he failed to smell her on him, or notice the smoking crater where Napoleon's sense of self had used to reside.

Apparently Illya was in the final stages of cracking the reverse engineering on the module they'd retrieved, and reportedly hardly even left his lab to eat. Napoleon certainly saw no trace of him. Over the next couple of days Napoleon strove desperately to distract himself, which was doubly difficult because his favorite means of distraction was right off the table. He couldn't even 'take himself in hand' without hearing her poisoned honey voice in his mind's ear, without feeling her nails raking over his skin, or the sharp pain of a paddle stroke on his ass.

Any trace of desire disappeared instantly as those memories manifested themselves, no matter how many times he tried to ignore them. Strong drink seemed to be his only recourse, and Napoleon was smart enough to know that this was a bad sign, and a short term solution at best. Luckily, Master Waverly assigned him another mission before he was forced to confront the issue.

The thing was that, strictly speaking, Napoleon was unfit for field work at the moment, and deep down, he knew it. He kept waiting for Waverly to notice, but Napoleon was his golden boy these days, and the old man had no reason to look for signs of trouble in his CEA. Heart sinking, even as he kept his game face firmly plastered in place, Napoleon listened to his boss outline the scope of his next mission, saying nothing about his internal turmoil. Maybe, he thought to himself hopefully, it would give him something else to focus on.

For a short while, it actually did. His new mission was to follow a THRUSH courier across Africa and note the location of the various outposts and drop sites he visited, without letting the man know he was being tailed. The job wasn't a cakewalk, as this was a top THRUSH courier, and even identifying him had been a bit of a coup. Staying on his tail while not giving himself away called for all the skills Napoleon had acquired as an experienced agent, and during the time he was working actively —trailing the man through the bustling markets of Mogadishu, or catching which flight he was taking out of Mombasa International Airport— Napoleon's focus was razor sharp.

But there was also a lot of waiting, and it was during those times that Napoleon felt his concentration begin to slip. He was haunted by memories and sensory impressions like a plague of ghosts, distracting him again and again at the times when he needed to be vigilant and aware of every aspect of his surroundings. The fatal slip finally came in Cairo, and it was luck alone that caused it to fatal for the courier, and not Napoleon Solo.

Seeing the disappointed scowl on Waverly's face as Napoleon described how he had lost the man, then clumsily stumbled upon him again in a Cairo alleyway was almost worse than the moment of realization that he'd just killed the man that he was supposed to be tailing and that, on top of that, he'd just been shot in the leg. Only the cursed luck of the Solos (and it was a curse, Napoleon would swear to his dying day) kept the mission from being a complete disaster.

In order to make the murder look like a common mugging, Napoleon had taken the courier's watch and wallet as well as his satchel of documents, and while the documents had revealed a few items of interest, it turned out that the watch was a highly valuable and irreplaceable THRUSH code generator. This meant that, while Waverly was momentarily displeased with him, all would be forgiven in a week or two —about the time it would take for his leg to heal— and no further questions would be asked.

Part of Napoleon was pathetically grateful to be spared further scrutiny, while another part knew full well that not only did this only delay the inevitable, it meant that things were going to have to get worse still before they got better. He felt that truth in the weight of the liquor bottles he carried up to his apartment that evening, heart full of dread for the next ten days that he'd been ordered to stay home and recover. With nothing else to occupy his time or his mind, the questions he'd been avoiding since his encounter with the THRUSH femme fatale had already begun hammering at him, and he already knew that no amount of strong drink would keep them at bay.

What _had_ she done to him? How was it possible that he'd let her do what she'd done, and having allowed it, how was it possible that he'd taken any sort of pleasure in it? _How_ in God's name had it been pleasurable? He'd believed all his life that it was impossible for a 'real' Top to take any pleasure in a submissive act, but it _had_ been pleasurable, in spite of the fact that it was also very much unwanted.

Subs were taught that their bodies could betray them, and that they weren't responsible for their body's reactions to certain kinds of stimulations. Tops were never taught such things because their dynamic supposedly required them to be in control in order to feel any pleasure. That's what Napoleon had been told all his life, and by that logic Napoleon must have wanted what Angelique had done to him, subconsciously, at least. But what did that mean? Did that mean that he was really a sub? Had he really always been a sub? But that didn't make any sense, as he'd taken real pleasure in being a Top for all of his adult life.

Had Angelique's assault _turned him into_ a sub? Was that even possible? Napoleon didn't think that it was, but then why had he responded as he had, and why was he still turned on by the memories, even as he was revolted by them? The questions became circular, one leading to another, which lead to another, until he found himself back at the first again. He spent his days in his dressing gown, standing by the window with a drink in his hand. He ordered food to be delivered and then picked at it, his appetite for food as absent as his appetite for anything else.

When the knock came at his door he felt the briefest moment of panic, not in fear of attack but that he'd possibly forgotten some appointment or engagement. He didn't even know what day it was. Pretty much the last person he expected to see through his door's peephole was the blonde headed figure of his one time partner. Napoleon opened the door in a confused daze, not even thinking about what his guest would see, or the conclusions he might draw.

This dawned on him, with a plunging sense of dismay, as he watched Illya take in the disorder in his usually immaculate apartment, the empty liquor bottles, the open boxes of congealing chinese food, is own disheveled state.

"I'm... I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company," he said feebly.

"So I see," Illya replied, without a single note of judgement in his voice. "It may not have occurred to you," he continued, "but it does happen to be Friday. They told me you were laid up and might not feel like going out, so I thought I'd bring the chess set to you." He held up the chess box he'd been holding all this time, but which Napoleon only now took note of. The bark of laughter which escaped him was acidly bitter.

"I appreciate the thought," he said sorrowfully. "But as you can see, there's no way I'll be giving you any sort of decent game this evening. I do apologize."

"So I see," the Russian repeated, giving a slow nod. "Well, now that I am here," he said, moving further into the room to set the chess set down between empties on the coffee table and clearing an assortment of newspapers and magazines off the sofa, "perhaps you'd best tell me what's going on."

For several seconds Napoleon struggled with some manner of denial, but the very directness of Illya's question made any attempt of this sort too pathetic. He was boxed in again, check and mate, and Napoleon found himself powerless to do anything but follow Illya to the sofa and sit on the other end, coming, after a moment, to lower his head into his hands.

"According to the UNCLE procedural manual," Illya contributed after a long silence, "I should be contacting the agency psychiatrist about now. I have a good idea, however, that sessions with the company shrink are about as popular here as they were in the KGB. I offer myself as an alternative, but if you find you cannot accept this alternative then the call will be made."

There was a certain steel in Illya Kuryakin's voice, reminding him of the firmness in Angelique's hands as she'd had her way with him. It seemed to steal Napoleon's will away, so that his mouth was made to open, letting the first hesitant words out, of its own accord.

"There was... there was a sub in Imatra..." he began uncertainly. "At least, I thought she was a sub at first. It was during the Finland mission... and I'd gone out to pick up a sub for a night of play... nothing unusual, nothing every agent doesn't do if it won't jeopardize the mission." Illya nodded his understanding and Napoleon knew he could go on.

"I... she meant me to think she was a sub," Napoleon continued, admitting to how he'd been fooled. "But she wasn't... I don't know what she was... but we were just getting started... and then suddenly... I wasn't the Top any more, Illya... She... she Topped me... She fucking _collared_ me and... and..." He reached for his glass, filled it with shaking hands and threw back the whole thing, shuddering.

"It... I... I don't know how to explain what it did to me, Illya, I don't know if you can understand..." A gentle touch on his shoulder stilled him and drew his gaze from the whisky stained coffee table to Illya's face. Impossibly, understanding was exactly what he saw there and Napoleon fell silent with astonishment.

"Perhaps," he said, voice gentle and compassionate, "I should tell you a little something about my own background at this point." Napoleon nodded, swallowing wordlessly.

"As a young man, I presented myself as a sub when I joined the gymnastic team, because I knew that the coach favored subs," Illya began. "But in truth I had no idea what I was. When I joined the Navy I had an opportunity to claim that my dynamic had been incorrectly assigned. There was a sort of test they gave me to confirm it, but I knew I could make this test come out in whatever way I pleased, and I knew that I would have far more opportunities in the Soviet Navy as a Top. I served as a Top for my whole Naval career, and entered the KGB as a Top as well."

"That was how...!" Napoleon burst out, forgetting that he was interrupting.

"That was how," Illya interrupted right back, a knowing smile on his face, "I recieved a full KGB agent's training, and had several years of experience as a field agent, yes, Napoleon. But you see, I was not really a Top either, as much as I loved my work and was very good at it, and as much as I also loved Topping subs, there were still days when I desired more than anything to submit to a Top. There were a very few people I trusted with this secret, mainly people who suffered the same... divergent urges as I. I played with these people exclusively, regardless of the role I was taking for the evening, and even so, one of them saw fit to turn me in, for impersonating a dynamic other than my true one."

"'Impersonating a dynamic'?" Napoleon repeated, not sure he'd heard correctly, for all that he knew of the absurdities of Soviet social restrictions. Illya's answering smile was pained.

"The mechanism of the Workers' Paradise cannot function if every part of the machinery does not know its proper place," Illya quoted wryly. "Subs who do not know their proper place are said to be suffering from ambition, a poison to the order and well being of the state. I was demoted from my position as field agent, all of the accomplishments I'd achieved as a Top were revoked or declared null and void, both in the KGB and the Navy, my pension was accordingly altered, and I was given a state collar, as are all unclaimed subs in the Soviet Union's military and other like services. So you see, Napoleon, I know exactly how it feels to be forced into wearing a collar."

Stunned by this narrative, Napoleon looked at the man sitting next to him on the sofa and saw, for the first time, the truth of who he was and how all the things he hadn't understood before now made perfect sense.

"But," he found himself saying, because one question yet remained to be answered. "You aren't really a Top, are you?"

"No, I am not," Illya agreed. "Nor am I a sub. According to the article I spoke to you about just before our mission, I am one of the rare few who fall right in the middle, fifty-fifty Top and sub."

"You're a switch," Napoleon said, as though it were a revelation. "The real thing."

"You say it as if you've discovered a leprechaun," Illya scowled. "I am a man, far less different from you than you think. Tell me the truth of what happened to you and I think you will come to understand the truth of my words."

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a depiction of a sex act in which one player has not really given consent to what happens to him. Dub-con warning!


	5. Chapter 5

In spite of what Napoleon knew to be the truth, it almost seemed as if Illya were some sort of magical creature, for he enchanted the entire story out of Napoleon almost painlessly. Everything that Angelique had done, and how it had affected him poured out of him and, though it might be the most wretched and embarrassing confession of his life, he saw nothing but complete understanding in Illya's expression throughout. He also, by the end, saw Illya's point.

"So... you think I might be a switch too?" he asked as he concluded.

"Napoleon, everyone is a switch," Illya replied patiently, "to some degree, at least. You, it is plain to see, are a Top, ninety to ninety-five percent of the time, but every now and then you will feel the need to... scratch a different sort of itch. There is nothing out of the ordinary about this. If you ask me, it is those who never, ever feel the urge to switch who are the psychologically unstable ones. This is where you find your abusive Tops, and the subs who allow themselves to be castrated or worse."

Feeling his whole world being reassembled around him, Napoleon sat back in the sofa and let it all sink in. This was not the same 'carpet pulled out from under him' feeling he'd been beset with before, but more of a 'you had no idea you were wearing dark glasses all this time' feeling. When he turned to Illya and opened his mouth to speak he had a half an idea only of what he was about to ask, but he decided to go with it anyhow.

"Illya," he said, looking into those cool blue eyes and seeing not ice, but an unshakable honestly and a true and deeply loyal heart. "Will you Top me?"

"I will," said Illya, without hesitation, even as he took the glass of whisky out of Napoleon's hand. "But not until you're sober. Right now you're going to go get something to eat, get cleaned up and then sleep it off. We'll negotiate the rest once you've done that."

Napoleon nodded, then rose with a resolved sigh to do just as Illya commanded. "You crafty devil!" he said a moment later, turning back to regard his partner. "You're Topping me already!"

"Perhaps I am," Illya admitted with a laugh. "In which case, you'd better get to it!"

One portion of reheated beef with broccoli, a shower and a four hour nap later, Napoleon found himself back on the sofa with Illya, feeling fifty percent his old self, and fifty percent terrified. Illya had consigned Napoleon's dressing gown to the laundry hamper (grasped between thumb and forefinger and held at arm's length) so he presented himself to Illya dressed in a shirt and slacks, for all that he was fairly sure he'd be divested of them soon.

"So," said Illya, handing Napoleon a cup of coffee made just how he liked it. "Some fundamentals before we begin. You will have a safeword, and it will not be 'Thrush'."

Napoleon chuckled, feeling more at ease already as he sipped his coffee. "How about 'Waverly'," he suggested with a perfectly straight face.

Now Illya chuckled. "Fair enough," he said. "That is a name guaranteed to throw cold water on any pleasant pastime. Now, one other ground rule. I am not, in general, a jealous man, but I can be a jealous Top. While you are subbing to me it must be as if you have never had any other Top. During our scene I will not tolerate the mention of any other names or references concerning persons who may have topped you in the past. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," said Napoleon, instinctively reverting to military parlance. Illya nodded in approval.

"Now," he continued. "Since I have never Topped you before, I require that you give me some idea of what sorts of experiences you would enjoy, or have enjoyed, and which sorts of activities you would prefer to avoid. Please bear in mind your previous agreement, however."

"Right," Napoleon said. "Okay, well, being tied up... I've always liked the idea, and I liked it okay... before, but not on my back, I think. Something about it... well, I didn't like it."

"That is fine, Napoleon," Illya said. "There is no need to give any reason for why you do or don't like something, only to say what works for you and what does not."

Napoleon nodded again, feeling still more at ease. "Alright," he said taking another sip of coffee to moisten his dry mouth. "So, clearly I'm no masochist, but I seem to like a little pain... things like nipple clamps and... being paddled or spanked was okay. I don't think I'd get anything out of blood play, though. Too much like my day job."

"Agreed," said Illya with a wry smile. "What else?"

"Um... being fucked was okay," he continued after a moment. "Which is to say that a lot depends on the person doing the fucking." Illya nodded with understanding. "I um... I really think I'd enjoy, ah, pleasuring a man... with my mouth. I mean, obviously I have given blow jobs before, but..." It was ridiculous to feel his cheeks flame when discussing such matters, but Ilya's smile was kind as he reached across to brush his fingers over Napoleon's face.

"I don't believe I have ever seen you blush before," he said. "It is quite adorable. Of course it is something very different, to pleasure a man as a sub rather than a Top. Tell me Napoleon, has anyone ever fucked your mouth?"

Napoleon felt both a fresh blush of heat in his cheeks and a surge of arousal. Suddenly reluctant to speak, he only shook his head. Illya's smile widened as it became rather more possessive, and slightly feral.

"Ah, Napasha... May I call you that?" Napoleon nodded, swallowing hard to feel Illya's fingers on his face, gripping his chin and running his thumb over Napoleon's bottom lip.

"I cannot tell you, in any language I know," Illya said, voice hushed with desire, "how it makes me feel, to know I will be the first to have your mouth in this way. You are a gift to me, more precious than all the secrets in the world."

Napoleon remembered how much he had craved Angelique's slightest word of praise, but Illya's words made hers disappear like a match before a blazing sun. "Master Giuseppe, my tutor, once told be that the greatest gift a sub can give their Top is their trust," Napoleon found himself saying in a low voice. "I want you to know that... I've trusted you from the beginning, even when I had no idea why, and I trust you now... like no one I've ever trusted in my life before. There's no one else in the world I'd trust with this... with me, but you... I know you'd never hurt me, never betray me... that I'll always be safe in your hands."

"Napasha..." Illya's eyes all but glowed with azure fire as he moved forward on the sofa with sudden, cat-like swiftness, to straddle Napoleon's lap. One large strong hand cupped his face, holding it firmly, the other was splayed across his chest, as though seeking to encompass his heart.

"You know," he hissed, pressing his groin against Napoleon's. "You know what it means to a Top to hear such words from a sub."

"And I meant them," Napoleon said, meeting the penetrating gaze that stood mere inches from his without a flinch. "Every syllable."

Napoleon had never been assaulted with a kiss before, but there was no other word for what Illya did then. Both his hands framed Napoleon's face now, so that he was pinned and helpless against Illya's tongue plundering his mouth. A moan escaped him, and an answering one from Illya vibrated between them. God above, Napoleon thought to himself as he mindlessly tried to thrust his hips against Illya's, he probably had been this hard before in his life, but never harder.

He tried to chase after Illya when he drew back, clearly reluctant as he kept returning for little nips and tastes to Napoleon's neck and ears and mouth, but Illya had something in mind, yanking off his tie with one hand as he continued to grip Napoleon's face with the other.

"Take off your shirt," Illya was muttering. "Take if off now or I will have to cut it off you later when your hands are bound."

This was not particularly easy, as Illya was still straddling him and pressed close, but Napoleon was motivated, and he'd made more difficult escapes in his career, after all. Illya had both Napoleon's wrists caught up on one of his large, capable hands the moment he was free of his shirtsleeves, and a second later was expertly binding them with his black necktie.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Illya said, "with one of _your_ ties. Pity you're not wearing one at the moment, but mine will do nicely."

Napoleon nodded, feeling some sort of indefinable calm descend over him as his hands were bound. Illya felt the moment as well, sitting back to regard his partner —his sub— with satisfaction. Blunt and callused fingers caressed their way through the dark hairs on his chest, and Napoleon found himself utterly beguiled by the fey yet proprietary smile that formed on Illya's lips. The smile turned thoughtful a moment later.

"This," he said, reaching up to touch his broad collar with its garish Soviet emblem now clearly visible under his open shirt. "It is not... off-putting? I can hide it, if you prefer."

"No," Napoleon shook his head immediately. "It's... part of who you are... your life, your history. Someday you'll be free of it, I hope, but it's still... you."

"Napasha..." Illya sighed, leaning forward to kiss him tenderly now. He planted a train of kisses down Napoleon's torso, pausing to spend some time with his nipples, licking and sucking at first until Napoleon was writhing with pleasure. He should have expected it to devolve into biting, but then Napoleon was new at this subbing business and it came, therefore, as something of a surprise.

"Fuck... oh fuck, Illya!" he cried as Illya fastened onto one nipple, sucking harder and harder until he had the little nub of sensitive flesh caught between his teeth. Napoleon threw his head back, bound hands grasping at one another, as Illya bit down harder and harder. Just when he thought that he could not bear any more he was released and Illya's tongue was lapping over it, thrilling him with a mix of pleasure and pain.

"Mmm." said Illya, a dreamy look in his eyes. "That was delicious, but I am afraid you have only whetted my appetite."

"Oh, no, no, no..." Napoleon moaned, entirely aware of the uselessness of his protestations. Illya's smile was properly terrifying as he lowered his head to address the second nipple. Napoleon tried to brace himself against the pain, but that was, he sensed immediately, the wrong approach. He could not fight the pain, could not deny it or avoid it; all he could do was accept it... submit to it.

He could let it in to him; let it move through him so that he gave voice to it, long wordless cries escaping his throat. The pain deepened and Napoleon felt himself fall through something like a barrier, a sort of second wind in which the pain was just as intense, but somehow much more bearable. The pleasurable aspect of it was also much more evident. Napoleon was panting with both pleasure and pain when Illya finally let up, looking over the two red and swollen nipples with satisfaction. Looking up to meet Napoleon's eyes, what he saw there seemed to satisfy him as well.

"Your pupils are dilated," he said, nuzzling Napoleon's throat.

"So are yours," Napoleon answered, revelling in the sensation of Illya's skin against his. They had both achieved their 'spaces' it seemed —Top and sub— which was a rare enough thing on a first play session, but Napoleon had felt how compatible they were from the beginning. The two of them fit together, like hand and glove, and Napoleon would bet that this would prove to be true regardless of which role they were taking.

"Hmmm, yes," said Illya, reluctantly lifting himself away from Napoleon. "I think we are ready for the next act."

Napoleon nodded, sitting placidly with his bound hands in his lap, aware nonetheless of how hard his cock was just beneath them. Illya's gaze drifted in that direction.

"Definitely the trousers will need to come off," he said, shrugging out of his own shirt as he spoke. He gathered both their shirts and draped them over an adjacent chair while Napoleon undid his belt and trouser fastenings. Then Illya returned to help him to his feet and to remove his trousers. The fact that Napoleon had not bothered with underwear merited no more than a single raised eyebrow.

Once Napoleon was divested of the remainder of his clothes Illya stood back to regard him and Napoleon figured he was entitled to return the favor. Of course Illya was still wearing the pair of skin tight jeans he'd arrived in, but his form was still worthy of admiration, as was his pale, well toned torso. He still had a gymnast's body, Napoleon reflected, his eyes caressing what his hands could not but desired to, very much.

Illya, for his part, seemed to be entirely pleased with what he was seeing which, in turn, made Napoleon puff up just a bit inside. As though reading Napoleon's thoughts, Illya stepped forward suddenly and pinched one of Napoleon's painfully sensitized nipples.

"You were looking entirely too smug," Illya explained at Napoleon's aggrieved yelp. "I could punish you for smugness alone, but the way I see it, your ass needs to be spanked on general principle, and I am more than pleased that it has come to me to do so."

Napoleon felt himself flush suddenly, from head to toe, aware that he had asked for this —for all of it— so there was no point in regrets. Illya was circling him now, like a hungry predator, and then his arms were encircling Napoleon from behind and the binding around his wrists was off, but his arms were still pinned by Illya's. In a flash Napoleon's arms were pulled behind him and Illya was binding them once again and propelling Napoleon forcefully toward the sofa.

"You learn that trick in the KGB?" Napoleon asked conversationally as Illya guided him to kneel sideways on the sofa.

"Hush!" Illya commanded as he sat on the sofa in front of where Napoleon knelt. "You are being punished now. There is no speaking during punishment."

Illya then grabbed Napoleon by the shoulders and pulled him down, prone over Illya's lap like a naughty child. His hand came down with a gentle but meaty slap on one of Napoleon's upturned buttocks. "You may however," Illya murmured wickedly into Napoleon's ear, "scream and cry like a little boy if you feel the need." Napoleon most certainly did not mean to whimper just then, but he most certainly did.

Napoleon had given more than a few spankings in his day, and seen more than a few handed out too, but he knew the hand of a master when he saw one... even when it was his ass that hand was falling on. Illya really did have fairly large hands, and they were surprisingly hard for a 'lab rat', but more importantly, he had perfect control. He began with firm but not particularly forceful slaps, shifting evenly back and forth over both cheeks, not following any pattern but building in force ever so slowly.

Napoleon had begun lifting his ass to meet the slaps at first, strangely craving the sharp sting of sensation, but he continued to do so even as the strikes became more painful. He couldn't seem to stop himself, even though it meant rubbing his hard and leaking cock over the fly of Illya's jeans again and again. He had no idea of when he'd begun softly moaning, almost keening as sensations intensified and Illya's hand fell harder and harder.

As the spanking went on, Napoleon's movements became more and more erratic, until there was a real danger that he would wriggle his way off of Illya's lap, but then his Top's other arm came down over the small of his back, holding him securely in place.

"Be still," Illya whispered, commanding, and Napoleon found himself compelled to obey. No longer seeking to meet or avoid the blows, Napoleon found himself acquiescing, just accepting the punishment Illya meted out and then he was falling into that serene place again. There was pain but it was not _his_ pain, any more than the water in the sea which he swam in was his water. He was floating... drifting in a sea of sensation, breathing it in... a part of it, and it was a part of him.

Then, suddenly, it was as if he had been cast out onto dry land, for the sensation had stopped and Illya was only stroking his inflamed skin, whispering soft words.

"Shhh... shhhh, it's all done now, my sweet Napasha; it's all over, and you've taken it beautifully," he was saying, and only as he began to recognize Illya's words did Napoleon realize that he was sobbing softly, and that his face was wet. Then Illya's strong arms were lifting him, drawing him close so that Napoleon's head rested against Illya's shoulder, and Napoleon felt his breaths calm and his sobs still.

Resting in the sanctuary of Illya's embrace, Napoleon let his eyes drift closed and knew a more profound sense of peace than any he had experienced in his adulthood. It seeped into the deepest parts of him, touching even childhood sorrows and the feelings of shame he'd known all his life for the occasional submissive urges he'd felt. There was no room for shame in him now, the peace of surrender was so all encompassing.

Within this moment, however, Napoleon knew that such moments are not lasting. He drew a long breath, at last, when he felt ready to interact with the world again, and was greeted with a shower of soft kisses on his face.

"You ready to come back now?" Illya asked gently. Napoleon nodded.

"I think you really needed that," Illya said. "I've never had a sub go so deep before, so quickly."

"I did need it," Napoleon said, clearing his throat after a failed first attempt. "But also, you... you are very good."

Illya beamed. "We aim to please," he said. "Now, are you ready to please me?"

"Very much so," said Napoleon, moving to sit up and then discovering that sitting on his ass was going to be problematic for a bit yet. Illya moved out from under him and arranged him so that he was kneeling on the sofa, facing the back, then walked around the sofa, making a brief reconnoiter of the tie points there. He then stood for a moment, chin cupped in one hand as he considered his next move. Napoleon watched him, anticipation mixed with a touch of nervousness, for Illya's imagination was nothing if not diabolical.

"I'm going to need some rope," he said at last. "Also, a plug for you and possibly a cock ring, if you think you will need it."

"Um," said Napoleon intelligently. "Well the rope's in my toy locker, in my bedroom, and the plugs are in the second drawer there... do I have a choice of which one?"

"Of course," Illya said benevolently, heading into Napoleon's bedroom.

"In that case, I'd prefer the one with the ebony handle," Napoleon called out. "Why might I need the cock ring?"

"In case you think you might come while I am fucking your mouth," Illya said matter-of-factly, reappearing in the living room with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder and the previously mentioned plug in one hand. Napoleon's cock did surge at the idea, but he drew a centering breath and brought himself under control.

"I believe I'll manage on my own," he said with more bravado than he really felt.

"You must be quite sure," Illya said, suddenly very close, tilting Napoleon's chin up with the hard ebony handle of Napoleon's favorite butt plug. "Failure on your part will be met with punishment."

"I won't fail you," Napoleon said, suddenly dry mouthed, but meaning it with all his heart. Illya nodded thoughtfully, then set the toys down on the coffee table and went to get a glass of water. He held it to Napoleon's lips as he drank gratefully, then refilled it to drink himself.

"Now," Illya said, thinking aloud once he had set the empty glass in the sink and gathered up the rope once more. "How best to proceed...?"

It was no surprise to Napoleon that Illya Kuryakin was something of a genius with ropes. Before very long Napoleon was well and truly immobilized, with one rope passing over his back and under his arms, pinning his chest down against the back of the sofa. More ropes counter pulled this one, attaching him to the tie-downs at the front of the sofa as well, and preventing any front to back movement. Illya tied his ankles next, so that his position, kneeling on the sofa was fixed. Bound thusly, Napoleon was secured for fucking, any way which Illya preferred.

Napoleon's range of vision was now also limited, so that when Illya stepped behind him Napoleon had no way of knowing what the man was up to. He had a good idea when he heard the cap of the lube being opened, and was ready for the intrusion of the plug when it came. He groaned a little to feel it press into him, stretching him and filling him deeply, and his cock stirred again. Napoleon wanted to come now, but he knew he must wait.

Then there came the sound of a zip and the soft rustle of cloth and Napoleon knew that Illya must be removing his jeans at last. Being more than a little experienced with topping, Napoleon knew that Illya knew exactly the sense of suspense he was creating by staying out of Napoleon's sight. On the one hand, Napoleon was almost trembling with anticipation, and on the other he knew that Illya would be inclined to take his own sweet time here. Indeed, before his sense of sight was indulged, Napoleon felt first hands, then the full press of Illya's groin against his heated and sensitized backside. He made a small involuntary sound in response.

"You do have a very shapely ass, my Napasha," Illya purred, caressing the flesh he praised. "Some day I will very much enjoy fucking it." The contact was drawn away now and Napoleon heard nothing because Illya would be shoeless and therefore completely silent.

"I have other pleasures in mind for this evening, however," Illya continued, letting Napoleon follow the sound of his voice. A moment later Illya came into Napoleon's field of view, splendidly naked and splendidly erect. He was uncut, of course; Napoleon had expected that... but not the little steel barbell inserted through his foreskin. Napoleon gave a little gasp of surprise at the sight.

"Do you like it?" Illya said, smiling stroking himself proudly. "A token of my most carefree youthful days in Cambridge." Napoleon nodded, mouth actually watering in anticipation.

"Do you want to taste it?" Illya's invited, openly seductive.

"Please," Napoleon managed, voice rough with desire.

"Worship it first," Illya instructed. "Show me your devotion."

Helplessly, Napoleon strained against his bonds to do just that, feeling a profound thrill at being restrained. The moment Illya brought it near enough Napoleon fell upon it to the limit of his reach, kissing it, licking his way down the graceful length of it, tonguing the little barbell until Illya groaned with pleasure.

"Very... very good..." Napoleon knew exquisite pleasure at the thought that the evident strain in Illya's voice was his doing. Illya's fingers in his hair, tugging sharply, only heightened his pleasure. "Now... no more worship, only service. You will take what I have to give you until I decide I am done... until I have spent myself in your mouth. You will not come until I say you may. Am I clear?"

"Yes," Napoleon little more than mouthed. It wasn't as if he had any choice, bound as he was, kneeling on the sofa, hands still fixed behind his back with Illya's tie. Illya could do as he wished, but his words reminded Napoleon of this fact and made his helplessness even more delicious. Then Illya's cock was filling his open mouth, all the way back to the soft palate, making him gag for just a second. Illya paid no notice whatsoever, only leaving it there for a moment or two to savor the wet heat of Napoleon's mouth, then began to thrust.

The thrusts were slow and deliberate at first, and Napoleon instinctively tried to suck and tongue the hard flesh moving in and out of his mouth. His hands strained in their bindings, yearning to grasp at Illya's hips; he struggled against the ropes which restrained him, every instinct urging him to take control of the encounter. Another tug at his hair, sharper than before, shattered this train of thought.

"You are thinking," Illya snapped. "No more of that! Your only purpose is to service me."

Even as Napoleon tried to intellectually grasp what this meant, Illya was upon him again, thrusting harder and faster now, so that there was absolutely no chance for him to do anything but take it.

"Yes... yes... take it, take my cock, my Napash," Illya murmured as he took his pleasure. "All mine to use... All mine..."

Napoleon found himself making helpless affirming noises as Illya fucked his mouth. He _was_ Illya's, to use for his own pleasure, however he wished, and there was nothing Napoleon wanted more at that moment. Being a mere vessel for Illya was more freeing than anything Napoleon had experienced in his life; it was like freefall, and Napoleon fell, and fell, and fell, free of everything but the pleasure Illya took from him.

It was as a vessel that he experienced his own pleasure and it was as if his entire body had become an organ of ecstasy —his and Illya's. The growing intensity of Illya's wordless cries fell upon his ears like a caress on his cock, like his mouth on Illya's. Illya's fingers clutching at his hair might as well have been deep inside him, stroking his prostate, and yet Napoleon knew he would not come. Not until Illya said he could.

But Illya would be coming, and very soon. Napoleon's whole body shuddered in sympathy as Illya's went rigid for a moment, his cock thrust deep down Napoleon's throat, and then he could taste the bitter effluent of Illya's climax at the back of his tongue, heard his Top cry his name out loudly in his culminating ecstasy, and felt the profoundest satisfaction, known only by the sub who has made his Top come.

Illya's grip in his hair loosened after a bit, then became gentle caresses. Napoleon relaxed against the well padded sofa back and felt Illya's cock slowly grow soft in his mouth, only the little barbell remaining hard against his tongue. He moaned a little, in pleasure and regret, as Illya finally withdrew, bending to kiss Napoleon on the mouth and taste a little bit of himself as he did. Napoleon let his eyes drift closed, feeling his whole body humming with the tension of his delayed orgasm but enjoying that tension immensely.

"Oh, Napasha," Illya crooned as he slowly walked around the sofa again, fingers trailing over Napoleon's sensitized skin. "My beautiful, obedient sub, would you like to come now?"

Napoleon made a contented humming noise, not quite able to manage a more coherent answer.

"Pardon?" Illya asked, nuzzling Napoleon's still tender backside.

"Please!" Napoleon gasped at the sensation of Illya's teeth gently biting there.

"Please, what?" Illya asked, maddeningly.

"P-please... I'd like to come," Napoleon ground out, back arching as Illya ran his hand up the inside of Napoleon's thigh.

"Very well," Illya murmured against the skin of Napoleon's ass, and then the plug was thrusting gently into him, and Illya's large, warm hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking him in rhythm with the thrusts and then Illya's _teeth_ were biting hard into his left cheek and Napoleon was coming and coming and shouting himself hoarse and coming like he'd never come before, in all his life.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

"Well that will give the neighbors something to talk about," Illya said later, lying on the sofa with Napoleon in his arms, both of them basking in post coital lassitude. Outside, the sun was just coming up.

"Mmm," Napoleon agreed. "Noisey subs they've heard here before, but it's never been me."

"Well, you were only noisey at the end," Illya commented, shifting on the sofa and then making a grab for Napoleon who nearly got tipped off. "We need to move to the bed, I think."

"Great minds think alike," Napoleon concurred, then after further consideration, "You'll stay a while longer?"

"I will," Illya said, rolling them both off the sofa and onto their feet. "But I will need to call in to headquarters. Do you want to shower first?"

Napoleon allowed as how he would rather crash now and shower when he woke, and so Illya tucked him into bed and went to get his communicator.

"Good morning Heather," Illya greeted the receptionist on duty (and soon to come off) as he strolled back into the bedroom, naked as a jaybird and just as unself-conscious. "Can you take a message for Master Waverly for me?"

Sleepy though he was, Napoleon opened his eyes to feast on Illya's splendid form as he came to perch on the foot of the bed.

"He's in already, is he?" Illya continued speaking into the communicator. "Well then I suppose you'd better patch me through." Through the lowered blinds Napoleon could see the sky blushing pink with the first light of a new day, but it was no surprise to hear that their boss was already at work.

"What is it, Mr Kuryakin?" Waverly's distinctive baritone was clearly audible, even through the communicator's tiny speakers.

"Good morning sir," Illya began. "I was calling to let you know that I was planning on coming in late today. I, ah, spent the night looking after a sick friend."

"Indeed," Waverly replied, voice neutral. "Well you might as well take the whole day then, and come in tomorrow prepared to do a proper day's work."

"Um, very well ,sir," Illya said, flustered. "And thank you sir."

"You just get our Mr Solo back into fighting trim as fast as you can, Mr Kuryakin," Napoleon heard with a mixture of dismay and admiration. "We need him here."

"Yes, sir," Illya repeated. "I'll do that sir. Kuryakin out." Illya capped the pen and regarded Napoleon bemusedly.

"Nothing gets past that man, does it," Napoleon said rhetorically.

"That would be why he's the boss," Illya said, climbing into the bed beside Napoleon and spooning close, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Natural, Napoleon thought. Natural was exactly how it felt to have Illya at his side, in bed, at work or at play, and it appeared that their boss was aware of this as well. This suggested that more missions together lay in their futures, which was a very pleasant thing indeed to dwell on as Napoleon fell asleep.

~*~

This prediction bore out precisely, not 3 days after Napoleon had returned to work. Those three days had consisted primarily of catching up with paperwork and reading mission reports, plus getting himself entirely cleared by medical. In short it had been a tedious three days and the idea of getting out on a mission at last held great appeal. Even when it transpired that it was in Alaska.

"The American government has consistently demanded that any technology we find which can be put to a safe, commercial use must be handed over to them," Waverly explained at that morning's briefing. "They actually made it a condition of our lease here in New York. What that means for us today, gentlemen, is that they believe the hyper-cavitation module, which the two of you successfully deprived THRUSH of, and which Mr Kuryakin recently reverse engineered, may possibly be useful in drilling for oil."

Napoleon did not have to glance in Illya's direction to know that he thought this a bad idea. Napoleon felt the same, as did, apparently, Waverly, but he'd explained well enough why their opinions made no difference in this case.

"We sent an... edited set of the technical plans to an oil drilling facility and research base operated by PetrAmCo in Wainwright, Alaska," Waverly continued. "A remote village on the north slope, which they insist provides for the very highest security. The engineers there report 'promising results' in their experiments so far, but that they now need the complete plans in order to proceed further."

Napoleon frowned. "Not to cast aspersions on the marvel and might of American private industry," Napoleon commented. "But if they think that being located in the back of the arctic beyond is going to even slow THRUSH down, they're sadly mistaken."

"My thoughts precisely, Mr Solo," Waverly said. "And this is why they have agreed to let us send two of our agents to personally inspect the security situation there. We will _not_ be sending the complete technical plans until we, which is to say you, are completely satisfied that THRUSH is not already there, and that PetrAmCo's security measures are up to snuff."

"But you think that THRUSH may already be there?" Illya asked.

"I find it inconceivable that they will have given up on this technology," Waverly answered, "or that the protective measures this private company will have taken will be nearly enough to thwart THRUSH. These people have no idea what they are up against with THRUSH, and I suspect that they will have badly underestimated them."

"So, we are to travel to Wainwright," Illya said, "investigate their security precautions, find THRUSH, and give this oil company a few lessons in proper security, if necessary."

"You have the essentials, Mr Kuryakin," Waverly said, laying two manilla folders on the table and spinning them around to Napoleon and Illya.

"Here is a complete dossier on PetrAmCo," he said, "and as much information as we've been able to gather on the town of Wainwright. Your flight leaves day after tomorrow, to give you time to equip yourselves properly. I'm told that you can expect sub-zero temperatures as early as September." It was, of course, already October 28th.

~*~

"What you international espionage people seem to have overlooked," pronounced PetrAmCo's on site supervisor, Peter Grantner, with no small amount of condescension, "is that we in the oil industry have been dealing with industrial espionage from the very beginning. We actually do know a thing or two about security here, and no, Mr Koo-ree-yackin, we do not assume that our remote location makes us invulnerable. Frankly, I find this little 'inspection' from UNCLE just another foot dragging tactic, and you can rest assured that the Senator from Alaska will have an earful about it from me." The Senator from Alaska, they'd already been informed, happened to be good friends with the Senator from New York.

"Mr Grantner," Napoleon said, with all the patience he could muster after a ten hour flight involving no less than six plane changes. "We do appreciate that industrial espionage is nothing new for you and your people, but UNCLE agents, good men and women, gave up their lives to keep this technology out of the hands of those who would use it to do evil. You can be sure that those agencies are either here already, or will be soon, and they will not hesitate, even to take the lives of every man, woman and child in Wainwright, if they believe it will grant them access to this technology."

"If they are aware of the presence of the H-C module here," Grantner said indignantly, "then that breach can be laid at the feet of your organization, not ours. Our security and personnel vetting procedures are flawless, and our security record at this facility is perfect."

The expression, 'Methinks the lady doth protest too much', had been going around and around in Napoleon's head from the first moment of their meeting with Mr Grantner. He was acting way too much like someone who had something to hide, but now he and Illya had to act as if they had no reason whatsoever to doubt his words, yet still insist that some motions, at least, had to be gone through. Grantner, it was clear, wanted them gone yesterday, Illya especially, for some reason. Napoleon took him to most likely be one of those tedious, knee-jerk Red baiters, but it would be unwise to assume that was all.

In the end, they got Grantner to agree to open their personnel files, particularly those of their most recent hires. They'd begin going over those tomorrow morning, after they'd settled in to their room —in the company dormitory— gotten a hot meal and a good night's sleep. They'd seen plenty of spectacular Alaskan wilderness on their flight in, but the town of Wainwright gave Napoleon the impression a garbage strewn, oil stained blemish on the pristine coastline. In addition to the PetrAmCo complex, the town consisted of a couple hundred ramshackle houses, a school, a town hall, the town store and a dingy cafe/tavern where the food was guaranteed to be over-priced, mediocre and served with a heaping helping of town gossip (much of it delivered behind your back).

This was where Napoleon and Illya went for dinner, as they were too late for the meal served in the oil company commissary, and besides, Napoleon figured that this would be a good way to get a feel for the town and its residents. These were ninety percent Inupiaq indians, with the rest consisting of school teachers from the lower forty-eight, and a handful of Coast Guard and Air Force personnel, who manned the Early Warning station located at the edge of town. These latter —Tops all— took up more than half the current customers at the tavern, and from what Napoleon could see, they'd already consumed quite a lot of the hideously expensive, lousy American beer that was the only alcohol available there.

He was just finishing up a hamburger which Napoleon would swear he could actually hear 'whinnying' as he ate it, when he caught Illya giving him a significant glance. They were being approached by a young native woman, who was determinedly ignoring the catcalls and other, cruder comments flung her way as she entered. The comments, and the braided leather wristband Napoleon noticed on her left arm, marked her as a sub, according to Inupiaq tribal customs.

"No subs in here Tina!" called the barman, an Inupiaq Top, as indicated by his facial tattoos. "You know the rules."

"I'm here to do business," she said, no nonsense. "Lippy told me there's a couple of newbies in town," she tilted her head toward Napoleon and Illya, "and I gotta catch 'em here 'cause they won't let me into the oil company complex."

Of course, Napoleon recalled, the oil company complex and the Early Warning station were mainly manned by Tops, and it was both company and military policy that there be as little mixing with the locals as possible. Inupiaq custom had it that any sub who spent a single night with a Top was as good as married, and any sub who spent a night with more than one Top was as good as a prostitute. It made for numerous unpleasant cultural clashes, but that was no excuse for dynamicism, or racism.

"Forgive me," said Illya frostily, standing and turning his head so that the barman could not fail to notice his collar. "I did not intend to violate the rules. I will escort the young lady outside and wait there while my partner pays for our meal." Unquestionably the first and last meal they'd be eating here.

It was dark and bitterly cold when Napoleon stepped outside to find Illya and the young sub standing under a streetlamp and watching the retreating form of a woman heading past the main gates of the PetrAmCo complex.

"All I know is she never hired me for nothing," the native girl was telling Illya as Napoleon approached. "I think she's only been here a few weeks."

"And what might you be hired to do?" Napoleon asked.

"Nothing fishy!" she began adamantly. "I'm a free sub still, and I will be until I pick my own Top. In the meantime, me and my dogs, we take visitors around the area. If you're hunters, I know the best spots to bag a moose or a bear; if you're bird watchers, I know where the best places to see the most birds; if you're here to fish, I know who has a good boat and won't rip you off. So, what'll it be gents?"

"Actually," Illya said, "we are geologists, working for the oil company. But we could use a general tour of the immediate area. Are you available tomorrow?"

"Hmmm... lemme see," she said, extracting an appointment book from one of the voluminous pockets in her hooded, seal skin parka. "I'm pretty booked, but it looks like a might have a slot... all day tomorrow?" She grinned infectiously at her own joke and even Illya had to crack a smile in return.

"Well, now you've got your whole afternoon booked," Napoleon said. "Do you require a deposit?"

In the end they paid Tina Oktollik five dollars with an agreement to pay another fifteen at the conclusion of their tour tomorrow, which would begin at noon. They could spend the morning going over the personnel records.

"Speaking of personnel records," Illya mentioned as they passed through the security gate in front of the PetrAmCo complex and headed to the dorms. "There's something we've overlooked: temporary workers."

"You think they have any temp staff here?" Napoleon asked, stepping into the 'airlock' of the dormitory's front entrance.

"Surely they must," Illya said, unzipping his parka in the sudden, almost stifling warmth of the indoor space. "What if someone needed to take a few weeks off to care for a sick parent, or attend a child's collaring ceremony in the lower forty-eight?"

"You may have a point there," Napoleon considered, digging into the pocket of his own parka for their room key. The rooms on this floor were really collage dorm style, with two cots, two small closets and two tiny desks in each room. Down the hall there was a gang showers and toilets, and there were facilities for exercise, play and punishment in the basement. It was all fairly impersonal and strictly utilitarian, but as long as it was sufficiently heated Napoleon didn't much care.

"There is something else I must mention as well," Illya said, sitting on the bed once he had removed and hung up several outer layers of winter clothing. Napoleon paused in his sorting of toiletries in preparation for a shower, letting Illya know he had his attention.

"You know that I have a photographic memory," he began. Napoleon nodded. "And I am aware that you visited one of UNCLE's forensic artists to have a sketch made of the woman THRUSH agent from your... encounter in Finland." Napoleon nodded again, beginning to see where this must be headed, but not wanting to believe it.

"I have committed that portrait to memory, Napoleon," Illya continued, "and the woman I saw this evening, the one I was asking Tina about when you came outside... I am fairly sure that was her."

Napoleon frowned deeply, sitting on his own cot to process this information. "Illya..." he began. "What are the odds?"

"It is not a matter of odds, Napoleon," Illya replied. "She is a known THRUSH agent, which is exactly what we expected to find here."

"Sure... but, much as I hate to admit it, there are hundreds, possibly thousands of THRUSH agents out there," Napoleon countered. "Why would she, of all the possible agents, be here?"

Illya shrugged, expressively. "It could be pure coincidence, or it could be that THRUSH knows that you were involved with the seizure of the H-C module in the first place and she may well have told them that she has some sort of 'hold' on you. Or it could merely be that she is the THRUSH designated agent for cold climate affairs."

"Right," said Napoleon, scrubbing at his face in fatigue. "She doesn't, you know," he added after a moment. "Have a hold on me, I mean."

"I know," Illya replied, as though confirming that he knew the sun would rise in the East. Hearing such placid confidence from his partner made Napoleon grateful beyond words.

"Well, then," he said after a moment. "I believe I'm going to go take that shower now."

"And I believe I'll go and keep an eye on things while you do," Illya answered.

Were it any other agent, Napoleon might have wondered, at that moment, whether his partner doubted him, or was merely watching his back. With Illya, there was no question, and that was a comfort he appreciated to the depth of his soul.

~*~

In the morning, after an uninspired but fortifying breakfast in the commissary, Napoleon and Illya went straight to Personnel to begin the more tedious tasks of the day. They had their first significant clue before they had hardly begun, however. Grantner had told them that they could use his office assistant's desk to work at, because no one would be using it till later in the afternoon. The nameplate on the desk read 'Kevin Fortino', but Illya discovered a discrepancy as they cleared a few personal items off the surface.

"Am I alone in finding it odd that someone named 'Kevin' is using this much lipstick?" he asked, showing Napoleon the pink smeared coffee cup he'd just picked up there.

"Not if it's a normal work day," Napoleon concurred. "But we can pull his records too, to be sure."

Mr Fortino, it transpired, was a Top, not in a committed relationship, and was currently attending his niece's college graduation in Oxnard. The temp worker who had been sent to replace him, however, was a woman sub named, according to personnel records, "Robin Angelica".

"I suppose it would be too much to ask for this to be just a really crazy coincidence?" Napoleon asked, looking forlornly at name in the paperwork. Illya would not dignify the question with anything more than a disapproving scowl. Examining the rest of the temps and recent hires, they came up with another three or four suspicious names before lunch and sent them all to UNCLE for further research.

Secure communication with UNCLE from the PetrAmCo facility required booking private satellite time, which they had prearranged for every day at eleven thirty. Alaska's north slope was too remote a location for their communicators to work directly, but at times it might be possible to patch them through the Early Warning station. This left Napoleon with a sense of working without a net, though it was true that even in places where UNCLE's extensive communications network functioned, help might still be days or even weeks away. It was easy to forget that such remote places as Alaska still existed in the world, and it made Napoleon that much more grateful for the civilized support systems he'd gotten used to.

After their daily communication with UNCLE, another boring yet sufficient meal in the commissary followed, and after that was their tour of the area with Tina Oktollik and her dogsled. She was accustomed to taking visitors on overnight trips, she explained as they began the first leg of their tour, and in that case, the sled would be loaded with food and equipment. Since this was just a half day trip, one of them could ride in the sled, if they wanted.

At first they both demurred, Illya insisting that he wanted to run off lunch and Napoleon declaring that it would be undignified. After half an hour or so of trotting beside Tina's under-burdened and energetic dogs, however, Napoleon acquiesced, and when he started to feel a little cold from lack of movement, Illya was happy to take his place. They took turns in this manner as Tina took them around to view the coastline, various significant rock outcroppings (she did think them to be geologists, after all) and other scenic points. Although they offered, Tina never took a turn riding.

"The dogs would never respect me if I did that," she said. "I might stand on the runners at the end of a really long day, or in a downhill stretch, but the musher never rides." She was an indomitably cheerful woman, even when the dogs misbehaved, or when she spoke of how the PetrAmCo personnel misused and exploited her people.

"Those of us who don't want to work for the oil company," she said, "we're told that we're backwards, that we're primitive savages, but we're not the ones destroying the land and poisoning the animals." Napoleon and Illya exchanged guilty glances at this, for they knew what she was saying was true, but there was nothing they could or would do about it. Once the module was safe and THRUSH thwarted, they would be gone and the despoliation of the land and denigration of the local people would continue.

Tina suggested one more stop before they returned to Wainwright which, at last, did seem like something that might be relevant to their mission. There was an old abandoned barracks, she explained, a couple of miles from town, left over from World War Two. It was nothing much, but visitors often asked to see it.

"Ëspecially lately," Tina said, steering the dogs and sled to the north. "A lot of the new arrivals seemed real interested is seeing the place, though I don't know why. It's just a bunch of old abandoned buildings."

"Well, now I'm curious as to what everyone else was curious about," Napoleon said. "I guess you'll have to take us there too."

"You wouldn't by chance remember which new arrivals those might have been?" Illya inquired, trotting effortlessly alongside Tina.

"I dunno if I can remember their names," she said, "but I think it there were a couple of geologists, like you fellows, and then... I think it was an engineer... and maybe his name was Martin?"

Napoleon exchanged another meaningful look with Illya, for Martin had been one of the names from among the personnel records which they'd flagged as suspicious.

When they came to the abandoned barracks the sun was low on the horizon, though it would hang there, circling around towards the northwest for a couple of hours yet before it slipped altogether out of sight. The handful of neglected buildings cast long shadows over the empty terrain around them, lending to the mood of desolation. There had been two wooden barracks buildings on either side of a corrugated metal quonset hut, but one of the barracks had burned and only a few blackened timbers and one corner of that building remained. The other was boarded up, though the boards had been pried off the door, which hung now on only one hinge and banged forlornly in the wind.

"We used to play out here when we were kids," Tina said. "We'd even have sleepovers in the old barracks, but then one night some older kids were out here drinking, and someone got careless with a candle. One of them, old lady Anshiki's boy, was too drunk to get out in time, and burned to death." Napoleon shook his head, thinking that the emotionless, matter-of-factness of Tina's voice as she told the story made it even more heartbreaking.

"Anyhow, nobody goes out here any more," Tina continued after a pause. "Lately I've heard some of the younger kids saying that there's mines or unexploded bombs out here or something, but that's a buncha bull. Sometimes I wonder how rumors like that get started."

"How indeed?" Illya said thoughtfully when a sudden icy wind struck them, cutting Napoleon's exposed skin like a knife. A second later an inky blue-grey cloud had swept over the sun from the north, washing the little remaining color out of the bleak landscape all around them.

"Okay sirs, time to head back," Tina said briskly, no outward worry in her voice, though the dogs were pulling the sled around already, without any evident instruction.

"How long before the storm hits?" Illya asked, in a knowledgeable tone of voice that made Napoleon wonder if Illya hadn't maybe spent some time living in Siberia or somewhere like it.

"We'll make it back to town in plenty of time if we step lively," Tina said unconcernedly. "But we sure don't want to get caught in it. It'll be forty mile an hour winds and zero visibility in about an hour here."

This was more than motivation enough for both the agents, and they had no trouble making it back to the complex well before the storm hit. They paid Tina off and tipped her to boot so that she flashed them another one of her infectious smiles before she turned her dogsled and headed off with a wave.

"We're going to have to give those old barracks a closer look, partner," Napoleon said as they went inside. "I wonder if we can't rent a snowmobile or something?"

"We'll need to take care who we rent it from," Illya advised.

"Good point," said Napoleon. "But hey, I bet Tina would know someone."

Napoleon put that on the mental list of things to do tomorrow he was beginning to compile. Back in their room, he and Illya washed up and compared their impressions of the day's discoveries. Illya agreed on the idea of renting a snowmobile and checking out the old barracks tomorrow, and Napoleon agreed to Illya's suggestion that they should begin trying to track down Mr Grantner's temporary office assistant this evening. If it _was_ Angelique, Napoleon very much wanted to know.

They decided to split up, one keeping an eye on 'Ms Angelica's' room (whose location they'd gotten from her personnel records) while the other kept an eye on the commissary. They switched places midway so that they could each have a chance to eat dinner, but other than that brief window, they never left either the commissary or her room unobserved. Despite this, there was no sign of her all evening. Though they said that she usually ate in the commissary, the kitchen staff remarked that they hadn't seen her tonight. The security guard at front desk claimed he hadn't seen her all evening either, but there wasn't going to be much coming or going tonight, as the storm had hit full on and was likely to last the whole night at least. Illya clearly found this suspicious and Napoleon couldn't disagree.

They took turns keeping an eye on her room for another couple of hours after the commissary closed, but Napoleon was increasingly convinced that they weren't going to spot her this way. It was damned suspicious, but nothing more than that, and it told them nothing concrete. He was debating the question as to whether it would be worth the lost sleep to keep up the observation all night when Illya came to relieve him on watch and so asked his advice.

"I'm not at all sure," his partner said with a sigh. "But I have the feeling that nothing much is going to happen while it's storming like this."

"Yeah, me too," Napoleon said, giving up on stifling the yawn and stretch he'd been holding at bay for the last hour or so. "You mind if I have a quick shower while you take the next watch? Then maybe we can both call it a night."

"Sounds like a plan," Illya concurred. It had been a long day for both of them, and a full night's sleep would likely serve them better than whatever information they might or might not glean from an all-night stakeout. That was what they'd thought, anyhow, and it served as little consolation later for Napoleon, that Illya had come to the same conclusion. Naturally, it was while Napoleon was showering that Illya poked his head in to tell him that he'd heard voices, and man and a woman's, from the west stairwell. The man's voice, he thought, was Grantner's.

Napoleon was just rinsing the soap off, and said he'd be out in a second. It was a disappointment to put the day's less than fresh clothes back on once he was out of the shower, but Napoleon dressed as quickly as he could, heading out into the hall in his sock feet, UNCLE Special out and ready. The hallway was empty and silent.

Napoleon called Illya's name, quietly at first, then more loudly. He headed towards the west stairwell, concrete steps ice cold through his socks, but saw and heard nothing -nothing save the howling of the wind outside. Napoleon headed down the stairs to the first floor, then pocketed the gun and made his way quickly to the front desk. They, predictably, had seen nothing.

Worry mounting, Napoleon returned to the stairwell, following the sound of the screeching wind, and went down half a flight to find the emergency exit door ajar, a little drift of snow already forming just beyond the open crack where the wind had blown it. Sock feet notwithstanding, Napoleon yanked the door open, shouting out into the blizzard uselessly. A little light from the stairs spilled out into the blowing chaos outside, and it was possible that he could see the faint remains of a set of snowmobile tracks, but it was impossible to say for sure. The last traces of any such marks would be obliterated by the wind in minutes regardless, and no one would be able to follow any such tracks in this weather and at night.

Illya was gone, and there was no way for Napoleon to follow him until after the storm blew over. Seething with helpless fury and furious regret, Napoleon stood, feet slowly growing numb with the cold, and stared out into the impenetrable wall of snow, wind and darkness, impotent in the knowledge that somewhere out there was his partner, in the hands of his enemies.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggery/squicky situations depicted. See end notes for details.

Napoleon knew it would be useless to try sleeping the rest of the night, though he did make an effort. Knowing that there wasn't anything else he could do to aid in his search for his partner until the storm let up, he lay in his bed, tossing and turning, visions of Illya receding into the blizzard haunting the few moments when he was able to doze off.

He watched the morning approach as the light outside his window went from opaque grey to opaque white and when his alarm went off he roused himself, dressed and went down for a breakfast he had to force himself to eat. By the time he had made his way through his plate of rubbery eggs and cold toast, however, it became clear that the storm was letting up at last. Now he could begin to search in earnest, but he would need assistance.

Napoleon hadn't mentioned to anyone beyond the night desk that Illya was missing, and now he decided to keep Illya's disappearance under wraps. He couldn't really trust anyone from PetrAmCo; he was fairly certain that THRUSH had infiltrated them already, but wasn't sure which personnel were out-and-out Thrushies and which were merely suborned or incompetent. Tina, on the other hand, he gotten a good feeling about from the start, and she would know who among the locals could be relied upon.

Finding the native girl meant trudging out into the bitter, cutting wind and asking around, which is what Napoleon did immediately after breakfast. Luckily he didn't have to go far, as she was well known in the tiny village of Wainwright, and by the time he found her he had decided to make her his full confidant. If both he and Illya should disappear, she would have a much better chance of keeping herself and other villagers out of trouble if she knew what was really going on. This was exactly what he told her once they'd found a sheltered spot inside an empty equipment shed where they could have a private conversation.

"I knew you weren't really geologists!" she exclaimed triumphantly once Napoleon had revealed their mission. "The last geologists I took around before had these little hammers and they kept breaking off little bits of rock everywhere they went and putting them into little bottles with labels. You guys just looked at the scenery until we came to the old barracks; then suddenly you were interested."

Napoleon gave her a wry smile. "Very astute of you," he said. "Now, what I need help with at the moment is finding someone with a snowmobile for rent so I can get back out to that abandoned barracks. It's just the kind of place I'd expect them to use as a cover for a base, and I'm sure Illya is out there somewhere."

"Yeah, sure, my uncle has one he rents out to visitors all the time," Tina said. "But you know I could take you out there again myself."

"I know you could," Napoleon said kindly, "but for one thing, I won't have you putting yourself at risk, and for another, there's something very important we need you to do back here. You'll be able to see a flare if I launch one from out at that barracks, won't you?"

"Unless there's another blizzard, sure," Tina replied. "The whole village will see it. It's so boring here most nights that any little thing will get noticed."

"Great," said Napoleon. "So if you see one within twenty four hours after I leave, it means we've gotten away, it's safe for you to come, and we could use a lift back to town. If you don't see anything after twenty four hours and we're not back, I'll need you to send a message. Is there someone you can trust in town who can get a call out to someone with a regular phone line?"

"Yeah, my Aunt Lippy's always on the radio with this guy down in Bellingham," Tina replied. "She thinks he's her boyfriend or something. Anyway, he can make a phone call for you... as long as it's not to Timbuktu or anything.

"No, he can call collect," Napoleon said. "And it's just to New York. All he'll need to do is call the number I'll give you, say he's got a message from Agents Solo and Kuryakin, and that they're reporting a 'code 77'. I'll write it all down for you."

"Wow, like real super spy stuff!" Tina exclaimed.

"Very real," Napoleon said. "Which means that lives are at stake —ours and yours. It would be a lot safer for you if there was some way you could get out of town after you made that call."

"Oh that's no problem," Tina said. "A bunch of us will be heading out to set up our winter hunting camp in a couple of days. I was thinking about going with 'em anyhow."

"That sounds about perfect," Napoleon said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Illya and I, if we get out of this, we're going to owe you a lot."

Tina shrugged, which Napoleon could feel under his hand more than he could see under her heavy fur parka. "Wouldn't want it said that the people of Ulguniq didn't do their best to help UNCLE. We may be isolated out here, but most of us understand that we're part of a larger world, too." The native girl glanced out the open door of the shed as she spoke, her gaze finding the unnatural intrusion of the dome shaped Early Warning station visible on the horizon.

Ulguniq, Napoleon recalled now, was the native name, in the Inupiaq language, for the village of Wainwright. Certainly the people here must have been made aware of the part they were playing in the contest between the two world powers whose border they happened to live near. Tina was both a child of her generation, and of her people.

"You're going to make some Top very, very lucky some day, not too far in the future I hope," Napoleon said with his most alluring smile.

"Quite possibly in the winter camp," Tina said, answering Napoleon's smile with her own infectious grin. "She's been going nuts watching me hang out with you guys the last couple of days, so thanks for that."

Napoleon laughed out loud as they left the shed, filing away the memory of Tina's smile for darker days, mind already turning to the tasks ahead.

~*~

The old abandoned barracks looked much the same as they had when Napoleon and Illya had been there before, with the exception of the drifts of new snow piled up on the windward side of the two remaining buildings. Napoleon wished there was some place he could hide the snowmobile, as he'd packed it with a few survival supplies which he and Illya might well need when they got out. The best he could do on this treeless tundra was drive it into a snowdrift, which covered it only slightly.

The absence of cover or any other signs of civilization was what made Napoleon sure that any THRUSH base nearby had to be underground. That and Tina's mention of how someone had started a rumor that there might be unexploded ordnance around the old barracks. This was a typical THRUSH tactic for keeping locals away from one of their bases, and while there was possibly more than one entrance, this seemed the most likely place that they'd found so far.

Before he left the snowmobile, Napoleon removed the flare gun and some other basic supplies and hid them, along with his communicator, under the foundation of the burnt down barrack. If some Thrushies did find the snowmobile and make off with it, they probably wouldn't look further. At least, that's what Napoleon hoped.

Reconnoitering the whole site again, Napoleon ventured cautiously into the old quonset hut first, thinking that something about the strewn rubbish at the back seemed suspicious. He took up a long piece of metal conduit and used it to probe the floor, as though it were some icy surface of uncertain soundness. He thumped it here and there, seeking some sign of a cavity or trap door, but found nothing until he struck a pile of corrugated roofing that seemed arranged in a carefully haphazard manner.

With a crash and a clatter, the sheets of tin tumbled down into a deep hole whose bottom was, predictably, lined with sharpened stakes. As pleased as he was not to be among them, Napoleon knew he'd given himself away with the noise, and walked quickly back out of the quonset hut, thinking to hide himself in the remaining barracks. Unfortunately, it was from this building that a full complement of THRUSH guards was now emerging, guns at the ready.

Napoleon considered, for a second or two, the possibility of getting back to the snowmobile and fleeing, but with no cover of any sort for miles he knew this would be a bootless endeavor. Instead, he raised his hands with a sigh, letting the guards surround him and take his gun. They dropped a sack over his head so that he wouldn't know where he was being taken, but UNCLE trained all its agents in how to mark a course even when blindfolded. Napoleon memorized the route effortlessly as he was lead into the barracks, down a long set of stairs and along a series of twisting underground passages.

Eventually he was pushed roughly into an enclosed space, where he heard the sound of a heavy door closing, and where he was stripped of his shirt, his pockets emptied and he was strapped to a frame, in a most vulnerable position. It was a touch unnerving, but nothing unexpected. Once he was secured his hood was lifted, and he was subjected to two rude shocks.

Both should have been expected, all things considered. He had come here looking for Illya after all, so it should not have been a surprise to see him, but the visceral fury that surged through Napoleon's veins at the sight of his partner strapped to a cross and clearly showing signs of torture went well beyond what he might have imagined. He was unable to stop from throwing himself against his bonds, as useless as he knew it to be, and this was what prompted the remark, from a voice he also should not have been surprised to hear.

"Hush now dear," came the too familiar, poison honey voice. "You mustn't injure yourself. You must leave that to me... and my friends here, of course." Angelique strode forward into Napoleon's view now, dressed impeccably in a very short fur jacket and thigh high stiletto boots. Napoleon quickly glanced past her to where he could see Illya through a large window —probably a one way mirror, depending on where the lights were— slumped against a St Andrew's cross, lifeless save for the regular movements of his chest. Napoleon focused solely on this, even when Angelique drew closer, reaching out to run sharp nails down his back.

In spite of himself, Napoleon felt his mouth go dry in response to Angelique's touch. She _didn't_ have a hold on him, and if his certainty wasn't enough, Napoleon recalled that Illya had confirmed the same. He _would_ control his reactions... but then, perhaps he could control them differently, to their benefit. Mind racing as the details of this strategy came to him, Napoleon considered how nothing would please Angelique more than to see some confirmation that she _had_ made Napoleon her creature in some way.

Distract your enemy, Napoleon recalled this principle like a litany. Do what you can to make them underestimate you. Let them believe that you are weak and helpless and strike when they turn their backs. He could do this —turn the unfortunate circumstances of his encounter with Angelique into an advantage. If he acted the suborned fool and pretended to be under her sway... Illya would have to draw his own conclusions, but Napoleon had a feeling that he would not be fooled... and would know enough to play along.

"Get... your hands off me," Napoleon gritted out through clenched teeth, letting his voice sound less than steady. Angelique only laughed prettily in response, and bent down to address Napoleon, her face mere inches from his.

"You're very used to giving orders, aren't you, my pretty boy?" she cooed. "I'm afraid you won't be giving any orders here, just taking them." Her smile was as venomous as the green of her eyes as she stood and walked around behind Napoleon, nails raking over his skin as she went. He was bound on a frame bent slightly forward and could not see hee past a certain point, but a moment later he felt her reach between his legs and grasp him there. She would expect a reaction, Napoleon realized, and if his ruse was going to be effective he would have to produce it.

Closing his eyes, Napoleon thought for a brief moment of the many lovely subs he'd enjoyed in his life, before settling on a vision of his partner, not Topping him, as he had done recently, but bound and submitting to him, as Napoleon hoped he might one day agree to do. He imagined Illya, blue eyes wide and dark with arousal, his body open for Napoleon's pleasure and felt himself grow firm in his captor's grip.

Napoleon moaned, in both pleasure and dismay, as Angelique's grasp tightened and then released him. Her laughter was dark and throaty and she walked back around to his face, fisting one hand in his hair to lift his head roughly.

"I hope you see now the true nature of your circumstances," she said. "You and your partner will do as you are told and perhaps you will be given the privilege of living out the remainder of your lives serving in a THRUSH pleasure house. And lest you think death might be preferable, let me make it clear that this will not be among your options."

"Doesn't... it doesn't matter what you do," Napoleon stammered out. "I won't tell you anything. You know that."

"Oh, we do know that," Angelique confirmed. "We don't care if you talk at all, though it wouldn't hurt for you to scream or cry a little. It's your partner who holds something of interest for us and as he's been more tight lipped than a clam up to now, your arrival is quite fortuitous. The others wanted to send a party out to capture you, but I told them that loyalty is UNCLE's greatest weakness, and you'd be along all of your own before very long."

Napoleon's guts twisted at these words, for it was now clear what THRUSH wanted, and what lay in store for him and Illya. On the plus side, it might mean that they would lay off Illya for a bit, giving him a chance to recuperate and possibly make an escape attempt. On the negative side, things were only going to go from bad to worse for Napoleon, for when Illya didn't talk they would up the ante, finding more cruel and extreme ways to torment Napoleon. All UNCLE agents were trained for such situations, as it was a possibility whenever agents worked as partners, and it was generally considered psychologically more difficult to endure the part of the one being forced to watch. Napoleon didn't disagree, but being tortured was no piece of cake either, especially when your only recourse was to beg your partner to talk.

If he continued with his planned strategy he would do just that at some point. It was what a craven, suborned agent would do. Napoleon had confidence that Illya would remain silent whether he knew Napoleon was playing a part or not, but the thought that he might believe that Napoleon was no longer his own man lay like a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach.

"He won't talk either," Napoleon said, dry mouthed. "The man's got a block of ice where his heart should be." There. If Illya was listening he would know that this was all for show. What he would do with that knowledge, however, Napoleon had no idea.

They began Napoleon's torments with the basics, laying into his back and shoulders with a strap, then with a knotted flogger so that his skin was soon covered with painful welts. They'd shifted the lighting so that Napoleon saw only his own reflection in the large window that lay between him and Illya, something which Napoleon had no particular desire to see. Illya would be watching, however; they would not give him a choice.

With that thought in mind Napoleon shifted his gaze to the window, not at his own reflection but at what lay beyond it, to the place where he remembered Illya had been. He focused on where he might meet his partner's eyes, trying to convey with his look that he was not broken and would not break. He might suffer, but that was an agent's lot, and he would recover when this was all over.

His captors paused in their overt torments from time to time, but forced humiliations upon him during those periods. He was induced to relieve himself into a bucket (under threat of being given diuretics and forced to soil himself) and later Angelique came to spoon feed him some sort of gruel, cooing at him as though he were an infant the whole time. Napoleon toyed with the notion of vomiting it all up onto her pretty fur jacket, but considered that this would not be in character for the role he was playing.

After this meal and another round of flogging his tormentors departed, turning off all but one of the lights as they left. Alone in the near dark and still cuffed to the frame, Napoleon supposed that he was expected to try and sleep, which they would no doubt interrupt with some sort of loud sound and lights. This did come later, but first they had another subtler torment for them both.

"Napoleon?" Illya's voice, uncertain and rough sounding (as if he'd been screaming a lot recently) came through some intercom in his room. Glancing up at the window, Napoleon saw that a single small light had been left on in the other room, as in his, so that he was just able to see Illya, now bound in a chair rather than on a cross. Illya would be able to see him as well, Napoleon figured, and he also figured that every word they said would be listened to. Now was not the time to break character, as much as he wished he could.

"Illya," Napoleon replied, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "You look comfy."

Napoleon knew he was not. They might have given Illya pants and a chair, but he recalled the many cuts and burns he'd seen on Illya's back and buttocks and understood that these 'comforts' only served to torment Illya in a more subtle way.

"Your observational skills are as deficient as ever I see," Illya replied dryly, letting Napoleon know that he understood the roles he meant them to take. "While this may represent a small improvement in my circumstances, I assure you it is nothing like 'comfy'."

"Really," Napoleon said, pushing his tone from neutral to bitter. "You're not enjoying the show?" Illya replied with an acid chuckle.

"There really is no limit to your vanity, is there?" he asked. "If I'd paid for this show I'd be asking for my money back. The sub is pathetic and flabby, and the Domme is... nauseating."

Napoleon had to work to refrain from laughing at Illya's obvious distaste for Angelique, transforming it into a angry if impotent curse. "Fuck you!" he snapped. "You could give them something, you know. You wouldn't have to give them all the plans, just a little bit, and they'd go easier on me, but you've never cared for another soul in your life, have you? We're all just chess pieces to you."

"Indeed," Illya answered, coldly logical. "And if you'd thought the same about me before you came barging in here without backup you would not be in this situation. That makes your discomfort not my responsibility at all."

" _Discomfort?_ " Napoleon spat. "You really are a walking computer, aren't you? You know they say that about you, back at UNCLE, and to think I used to do my part to shut that kind of talk down. 'Not good for moral,' I told them. Damn me if they weren't right, though."

"Enjoy your sense of moral superiority while it lasts, Solo," Illya scowled. "Even a computer would experience nausea at the spectacle they tell me I'm going to be witnessing tomorrow. I imagine you'll be begging me to tell them anything and everything by the end, but if it's any comfort to you, I can promise that I will remain unmoved."

Napoleon almost shivered at the frost in Illya's voice, even knowing what he knew. Neither one spoke after that, each having said everything that they could, given that their words were not private, and the truth was that Illya's last sentence _had_ come as a comfort to Napoleon —the only comfort that really mattered in the current circumstances. Illya had also let Napoleon know that their captors had something particularly unpleasant planned for him tomorrow, and given his posture on the bondage frame —bent forward with his legs spread— it wasn't hard to imagine what that might be.

Any agent with enough experience to have endured true privation knows that there is a level one descends to psychologically, when survival is the only goal. The imagination must be nearly shut down, or narrowed to only consider avenues for escape. All expectations must be denied, and all scraps of nourishment, sleep and other vital components must be accepted for what they are alone. Thus as Napoleon let himself doze off in the dimness and silence, and was shocked awake by bright lights and klaxons fifteen minutes later, he knew no surprise or dismay, but only waited for the noises and lights to end so that he could grab another few minutes of precious sleep.

He would pass the night that way, and felt no humiliation when they came in the morning to make him defecate into a bucket. He would eat what was given him, as long as it would nourish him, and the words and sounds emanating from his enemies would have no meaning. The words that came as promises Napoleon took in as data, and understood that his suspicions of last night were now confirmed. More promises, of an increasingly graphic nature, were heard and understood as his back was assailed with the flogger again, so that fresh welts were added to yesterday's.

There was no ignoring the pain, but Napoleon endured it, as he would endure whatever else came to him. He could endure anything but death, he told himself as Angelique ran her nails lovingly over those welts and then proceeded to cut his trousers and underwear away. Napoleon knew better now than than to think his body would not react, but he strove to distance himself from those reactions, beginning with the shiver he gave as his skin was exposed to the cool air.

Angelique herself applied the riding whip to his newly exposed backside and this finally broke Napoleon's near silence up to now. The shouts that he gave were like animal sounds, not so much _his_ as his body's, which Napoleon was working very hard at distancing himself from, knowing what was to come. He knew it was coming soon because there was a lineup of men forming at the door, and the smell of their arousal could now be sensed, mixing with the smell of his own blood.

When the whipping stopped Napoleon's body knew relief, but that was only his body's first betrayal. It did not know that worse was soon to come. Napoleon closed his eyes, thinking to retreat as his training suggested, but then there came a sharp tug of a fist in his hair and a stinging slap on his face. Angelique was standing before him, a venomous smile on her pretty lips.

"Oh no, my darling," she said. "You're going to stay right here, and let your partner see into your eyes. I want him to watch you die inside, pretty boy. I want him to see your soul bleed."

This, alas, served all too well at shaking up Napoleon's careful distancing. He did not want Illya to see him suffer; he did not want to see himself —and the men abusing him— reflected in the enormous mirror/window that took up much of the wall to his right. Angelique gave him no choice, however, wrenching his head around to the right so that the whole tableau was revealed to him. It was what Illya would be seeing now —his partner bound, open and helpless with a growing crowd of men, some with their trousers open and already erect members protruding impatiently, gathered eagerly in the doorway.

Napoleon found the scene riveting in spite of himself and could not have torn his eyes away even if he'd been able to. This was surreal enough in itself, but then, inexplicably, the scene distorted, bulged slightly... and then shattered with a violent ear-splitting crash.

The air was all at once filled with countless shards of mirror surfaced glass and behind it —seemingly propelling it— came a chair, of the sturdy, metal office sort, quite possibly the very one Illya had been bound to until quite recently. With this connection, Napoleon's brain seemed to spring to life, racing at full speed to asses the situation and look for options. Conversely, the motions and actions of people and things around him seemed to slow.

The last image Napoleon caught in the dissolving mirror was that of the once eager men suddenly shrinking back towards the crowded doorway as the chair arced and tumbled through the now open window, a halo of glittering glass accompanying it. Angelique's fist in his hair vanished as she too stumbled backwards, her hands coming up to shield her face. Following the trajectory of the chair, a figure now appeared in the jagged window frame —a pale skinned, bare foot, blonde haired fury with a stolen gun, poised in the frame just long enough to aim and fire a handful of times. Napoleon did not have to be able to see to know that each shot had found its mark.

Angelique, alas, was not among them, as Napoleon saw her reappear in his far right field of vision, diving back through the shattered observation window, rather than trying to escape through the overcrowded doorway. That place, though Napoleon could not see it, quickly became a killing ground, as he saw Illya take aim and heard the gun speak, again and again. There was no expression at all on the man's face, and his blue eyes seemed as to be nearly frozen colorless, as though he really were the machine Napoleon had accused him of being the night before.

His expression did not change as he lowered his weapon, then turned it on Napoleon's shackles, freeing his hands first, then his feet. Napoleon stood slowly, feeling every one of the welts and cuts on his back and backside as he did so. The room was now silent, save for the occasional tinkle of still falling glass. Illya stood unmoving save for his heaving chest, gun in one hand with the other steadying himself on the punishment frame, eyes remaining on the open, unguarded door. Napoleon took that moment to assess the state of his partner, his eyes moving over his body to note that the floor around his feet was smeared with blood.

"Illya," he said softly, breaking the silence. "Your feet..."

"Doesn't matter," Illya said flatly, and Napoleon understood that, just as he had sought to 'go somewhere' to endure what he'd thought was coming, Illya had 'gone somewhere' too, in order to do what he'd had to, and he was still there.

"It does if you're going to walk out of here, partner mine," Napoleon said matter-of-factly. He himself was sensing a slightly hysterical edge of encroaching euphoria in reaction to what had nearly but not happened to him, but figured he could keep it together long enough to get them out of here. This involved draping a couple of jackets from the fallen Thrushies over the window frame so that he and Illya could return to that room where Illya's two guards had been felled with blows to the head (most likely from the chair) and whose uniforms, therefore, were more intact and less bloodstained.

He got himself clothed first, then made Illya sit while he removed the bigger pieces of glass from his feet and wrapped them in torn pieces of the guards' undershirts. Illya seemed to be coming back to himself as he endured this, shuddering as the pain of his injuries reasserted themselves.

"I observed twelve different personnel involved in my own punishments and yours," he said eventually. "I believe I have eliminated nine."

"I imagine Angelique is arranging for her own escape, even now," Napoleon said. "And there's a good chance she'll be accompanied by at least one or two of the remaining three."

"I am sorry to say you are probably correct," Illya said with a sigh. "Sorrier still that there is no point in going after her now, and sorriest of all that Mr Grantner was not among those who met their end in the other room. _He_ came to visit me several times previously and took far too much pleasure in our misfortunes."

Illya had begun to relax with his sigh, coming to slump against Napoleon as they both sat on the floor of the room where Illya had been tortured. Very likely no one would return to find them here, but it would be better for them to get a move on nonetheless. Wrapping his arm around his partner's waist, Napoleon pushed them both to their feet, keeping as much of Illya's weight on himself as possible. Illya paled and hissed out a pained breath just the same, and let Napoleon all but carry him through the abandoned complex and up the stairs to the ruined barracks.

The snowmobile was gone, of course. The tracks, and a set of accompanying footprints lead back in the direction of the settlement. The satrap would be dissolved and Grantner was now a made man, and therefore ineligible for another undercover position unless he underwent plastic surgery —which Napoleon had heard was a not infrequent practice at THRUSH.

It had been more than twenty four hours, but Napoleon figured that no harm would come of firing off the flare anyway. Some help might come, more likely from the locals than any remaining THRUSH, and neither he nor Illya was really fit to make the two mile walk across the trackless wilderness back to the settlement. If they encountered any inclement weather they'd be much better off here at the barracks in any case.

Napoleon wrapped them both in the emergency blankets he'd stashed under the foundations of the burnt down barracks and fed them little bits of one of the chocolate bars along with sips of cold, fresh water. The two of them dozed there, huddled together in the corner of the old barracks as the sun worked its way slowly around to the western horizon. No klaxons or lights came to wake them but the gently gradual sound of barking dogs approaching eventually did, and it was possibly the most pleasant waking Napoleon could imagine.

 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter depicts a near gang rape almost happening to one of the main characters. The rape does not actually happen, but the description of the lead up is fairly vivid.


	8. Chapter 8

According to the latest political news there'd been a dramatic falling out between the Senator from Alaska and the Senator from New York and while the press seemed to have no clear idea what had caused it, Napoleon and Illya most certainly did, and it gave them both cause to smile. It had given Master Waverly cause to smile as well, for all that he had been less pleased about Angelique and Grantner's escape. On the whole, even he had to count the mission a success, as THRUSH had been prevented from reacquiring the module and the US officials who had insisted the most loudly that UNCLE's technological resources be opened to them now had quite a lot of egg on their faces.

The UNCLE team of mainly Section III agents who'd arrived in Wainwright in response to the call that had been made on their behalf had installed themselves in the PetrAmCo offices and made a very clean sweep of things. The revelation that the complex had been thoroughly infiltrated by THRUSH for over a year and a half cast a rather poor light on the Alaskan oil industry in general and the US's 'technology repatriation policy' in specific. Napoleon and Illya had sent a very large, very expensive fruit basket (fresh fruit being more valuable than gold on Alaska's north slope) to Tina by way of her cousin, who was the one who'd actually come to collect them from the old barracks that evening.

The UNCLE forces had arrived the next day and probably would have found the two agents before they froze to death, but Napoleon and Illya both appreciated the extra lengths Tina had gone through, to see that someone would respond the the flare even after she'd left town. They both got an invitation to her collaring ceremony roughly two weeks after they'd returned to New York and while personal attendance was out of the question, they had a call in to research to determine what might be an appropriate gift to send for an Eskimo collaring ceremony. They both wanted to be sure that it was something especially nice.

It had taken the UNCLE surgeons a full two hours to get all the glass out of Illya's feet and now, two weeks later, he still had at least a week of mandatory down time left. Napoleon was himself still restricted to desk duty, but was able to be more philosophical about it. Illya, on the other hand, was slowly going stir crazy. Napoleon had a feeling that it wasn't just that Illya hated being restricted, or that he was between projects in his lab just now. In fact, if it were any other 'sub' Napoleon would be fairly sure that the man was simply keyed up after the mission and needed taking down, but Illya was most certainly not any other sub.

It was with the utmost delicacy, then, that Napoleon offered a take-out meal and a game of chess at his place, and to his profound relief, Illya accepted. Napoleon had worried that Illya would insist on returning to the Sub Station for their social interactions so that everything would appear to be on the up-and-up, but he made no mention of this. He did make some show of considering the worthiness of Napoleon's suggestion, but acquiesced in the end... almost as if he knew what was really on Napoleon's mind.

Napoleon had generally excellent instincts about his subs (Angelique notwithstanding) but regarded those instincts with caution where Illya was concerned. Illya was not, after all, a typical sub, and in some respects not a sub at all. Still, Napoleon had a feeling that just now Illya was more or less functioning in 'sub mode' and that his own instincts might serve him well in this instance.

Going by those instincts, and what he'd already learned about Illya, Napoleon knew that Illya would be one of those subs who fought their submission. Napoleon hadn't spent so much time with subs of this sort previously, mainly because the more tractable ones tended to catch his eye first. It occurred to him now that he might have been missing out on a good thing, because as pleasant is his assignations had been in the past, he'd too often come away with the feeling that it had all been too easy. There was nothing easy about Illya, and the more Napoleon thought about it, the more he anticipated testing himself against the man.

A test it must surely be, for Illya would give nothing until Napoleon put something of his own on the table, so to speak. This was what Napoleon considered as he cleared away the remains of their dinner and began to set the chess pieces up on the board under Illya's watchful eye.

"I've had an idea to make this evening's game a bit more... interesting, if you like," Napoleon said nonchalantly, gathering up a pair of pawns for Illya to choose.

Illya's eyebrows rose up into his blonde bangs. "So far, our games have been fairly interesting on their own," he replied. "But I am curious to hear your proposal."

"My proposal," Napoleon said, offering his closed fists —each containing a pawn— to Illya, "is that whoever wins this game will Top the other, at the conclusion of the game."

"Now, Napoleon," Illya said with a sly smile, "if you wish me to Top you again, you need only ask, you know."

"Ah, but I didn't say that," Napoleon replied smoothly as Illya chose the white pawn and won the first move of the game.

"No," said Illya, considering his opening move, "but based on your record against me so far, the odds are clearly in my favor."

"That 'record' would be a total of two games," Napoleon replied. "Hardly a representative sample, and I'm willing to bet that I can amend that record. If I lose... well there are far worse fates. What do you say, partner mine?"

Not only was this the sort of challenge that Napoleon was sure Illya would not be able to resist, he was also nearly certain that, in fact, Illya wanted to be forced to submit; that he would play this game as brilliantly as always but still find a way to lose, and therefore be honor bound to let Napoleon Top him. The fight would be far from over at that point, but he would have Illya's consent, which was half the battle at least.

"Well, seeing as I already know the contents of your toy closet fairly well," Illya said with a fierce grin, "why not?" He extended a hand over the board and Napoleon took it, sealing the deal. He had the consent he had sought, now all he had to do was win Illya's submission.

"Just as a reminder," Napoleon put in. "You remember my safe word, right? It's still 'Waverly'. What will yours be?"

Illya scowled at the question, but had to answer it. "Very well.. mine will be... Brezhnev."

Napoleon nearly spit out the coffee he had just taken a sip of and nodded. "That'll do, partner mine. That'll do," he said, and turned to address the game.

Napoleon had spent some part of the last few days boning up on his chess technique, but he began this game cautiously. Illya, on the other hand, set out to play a highly aggressive game from the very beginning, pushing Napoleon into a defensive stance. It soon became clear, however, that Illya was taking reckless risks, some of which were likely feints, but others simply sloppy play. Napoleon watched carefully, then began to pick off Illya's endangered pieces, one after another.

He lost a few of his own, either through misjudging Illya's feints or just the inherent risks of his strategy, but after an hour or so Napoleon could see that the game was definitely going his way. As one might expect, Illya's game turned more desperate as the evening went on, though that hardly made him easier to beat. There was a sort of massacre of pawns leading into the endgame but when the dust had cleared Napoleon saw his way clear to capturing Illya's king and, a handful of moves later, had him cornered.

Illya scowled so deeply at the board as he reluctantly tipped over his king that for a moment Napoleon thought that Illya would renounce the bargain they'd made, but he did not. Instead he glanced up to meet Napoleon's gaze with a dark, impenetrable look and stood, so abruptly that he jostled the table and sent a couple of chess pieces tumbling to the floor. As Napoleon had suspected, the task of acquiring Illya's submission must now be played out in a less subtle manner.

"So," Napoleon said lightly, secretly pleased that he'd taken the precaution of removing all the breakables from the living room. "Where shall it be? Here or the bedroom?"

"I suppose," Illya said, his expression openly challenging, "it depends on where you are best able to secure me."

Deceptively casual, Napoleon rose, aware of the table between them and strategizing as to how he could get close enough to Illya to get his hands on him.

"I suppose it does," he replied. "And as it happens, I have set up a little apparatus in the bedroom that ought to fulfill that function quite well." He strolled around the table at a leisurely pace as he spoke, as though he did not expect Illya to evade him at all.

"Apparatus?" Illya said with raised eyebrows as he took a step back from the table.

"Just a suspension sling," Napoleon replied. "Have you ever used one?" He was nearly sure that Illya's answer would be 'no'. He doubted very much that Illya had ever had a Top who sought to do more than dominate him, and never one with the goal of pleasuring him into submission, as Napoleon planned to do.

"I, ah... can't say as I have," Illya managed, taking another small backwards step. Napoleon took another larger step forward, so that he was close enough to grab hold of Illya, but he kept his hands down.

"Oh I'm sure you'll love it," he said. "All my subs sing its praises. They say it keeps them completely secured and helpless, but comfortable too, and of course, it will hold you however I want, so that I can take whatever pleasure I like from you."

Napoleon watched with satisfaction as Illya's pupils dilated and his breath became shallow and more rapid. Hesitantly, Napoleon lifted his hand, not to seize but to caress, brushing Illya's pale cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "My Illyushka. I can't wait to see you, bound and helpless and submitting to my pleasure." While Illya seemed mesmerized by Napoleon's words he moved, smoothly and yet too rapidly for Illya to resist. In the blink of an eye Napoleon's arms were around Illya's waist and he was pressed, back to Napoleon's chest.

He moved them both forward a few steps so that they stood before the full length mirror that hung in the hall, halfway between the livingroom and bedroom. Napoleon, of course, wore black —his favorite leather vest over a black silk shirt and black wool slacks beneath his belt. Illya had arrived this evening in deliciously tight faded jeans which left nothing to the imagination, and a white shirt and tie. In the mirror he appeared to be a thing of ivory or pearl, framed by Napoleon's ebony presence.

"My beauty," Napoleon sighed, bending down to touch his lips to Illya's temple. "My beautiful Illyushka." Napoleon's use of the possessive seemed to disturb Illya's tranquility, however, and he felt the man tense in his arms.

"I am not yours, nor any man's," Illya growled. "As you well know."

"Strictly speaking, no," Napoleon said. "But one of my first lessons from Master Giuseppe was that when you are in a scene with your sub, nothing else matters but you and him: one of you is the possessor and one is the possessed, and that must be your whole world."

"A lovely sentiment," Illya replied. "On the other hand, one of the first things I learned in boarding school was that when someone thinks he finally has the thing he has sought for some time, that is when he is most vulnerable."

Napoleon should have suspected something, of course, and he'd been fairly sure that Illya wasn't finished resisting, but he was still taken by surprise when Illya suddenly hooked his foot around Napoleon's, bringing them both crashing to the floor in front of the mirror. Napoleon's first goal became not controlling Illya but rolling them both away from the mirror, on the theory that they'd both had enough of broken glass lately. There then followed a no-holds-barred struggle on the livingroom floor, into which Napoleon threw himself with savage pleasure.

Illya fought like a demon, but Napoleon fought like a man who already knew what the outcome would be. His blood was singing in the most primordial of harmonies known to Tops alone when he finally attained mastery of his sub, straddling his hips and pinning his hands above his head, next to the overturned coffee table. Illya continued to struggle, of course, which only made Napoleon's grin wider and more savage as he removed the cuffs from his belt and captured Illya's wrists in one swift move.

"You are mine now, and mine alone, Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon said fiercely.

Beneath him, Illya writhed and spit out a curse in Russian, but his eyes were dark with arousal, the pupils widened to black pools rimmed with azure and his erection pressed up against Napoleon's, hard and eager. It hardened further when Napoleon drew a knife from his vest pocket.

"This isn't exactly your newest shirt, is it?" Napoleon asked conversationally as he pulled off Illya's tie, then slipped the knife under the shirt collar to cut it open at the shoulders. "Looks like you were expecting to wind up here, hmm?"

Illya gave no reply beyond swearing at him in Russian again and so Napoleon made quick work of cutting Illya's shirt away entirely. As always, Napoleon found Illya's physique, especially when displayed in this manner, well worthy of at least several seconds of perusal. Still holding Illya's bound wrists with his left hand, he caressed the smooth skin of Illya's torso with his right, pausing to molest his nipples till they stood erect and flushed.

Unable to resist tasting them, Napoleon bent forward to lick each one and then sucked at the right one, pinching it between his teeth gently. Illya writhed and moaned beneath him, but refrained from further swearing. Napoleon figured he'd be spending a lot of time with Illya's nipples later, when he was safely secured, but had another goal in mind for now. He kissed and nibbled his way up Illya's chest to somewhere near his collarbone but well clear of his collar.

The heavy leather claim around Illya's neck had not bothered Napoleon in the least when Illya had Topped him, but he found that it irked him now. He would leave his own claiming mark, he decided. That would settle matters.

"I don't hold with a man being claimed by a state," he said, lips caressing the patch of skin he'd chosen. "And I don't hold with a man being claimed without his consent. You've given _me_ your consent tonight, Illya Kuryakin, and I would see a mark of my claim on you, more legitimate than this seal they forced on you."

Napoleon kissed then sucked on the spot, just below the collar line on the right side of Illya's upper torso. He sucked harder and harder, till Illya began to thrash beneath him and to make a thin keening noise. Still Napoleon did not stop until he was sure he'd left a clear mark. Then he released his hold, raising himself up to regard his work.

The red mark on Illya's pale skin was already purpling slightly, standing out vividly beneath the crude, dark collar with its garish, red enamelled plaque bearing the Soviet hammer and sickle. To Napoleon's eye, one mark stood out as cold and impersonal, the other as a living testament, and he felt a visceral flush of of dominance at the sight.

"Now," growled. "Now you are mine; for all the world to see!" He moved then, without another word or thought, grabbing Illya up from the floor as he stood and throwing the man over his shoulders, like some cave man's prize. The move so surprised Illya that he remained largely unmoving, slung over Napoleon's shoulder like a sack of flour, until he was deposited abruptly into the sling suspended over Napoleon's bed.

Once there, Illya found himself largely immobilized by the thing's very design, as he settled down into wide mesh of the sling like a hammock and would find it quite difficult to extract himself, even if unbound. Naturally, he did not remain unbound either, as Napoleon immediately clipped his handcuffs to one of the four ropes from which the sling was suspended. Working with swift skill, Napoleon soon had each of Illya's wrists freed of the metal cuffs and comfortably bound to two separate ropes and now turned to the task of removing Illya's jeans.

If Illya had continued to struggle and kick Napoleon could have been presented with some difficulty here, but the suddenness and novelty of the situation seemed to have taken much of the fight out of his sub —for the moment, at least. Once he had Illya's jeans unbuttoned, his rigidly erect cock springing out, unencumbered by any intervening layers of underwear, the sub was putty in his hands. Napoleon slipped the jeans off and then took his time carefully securing Illya's ankles to the other two ropes, so that when he was done Illya hung immobile and splayed open, entirely Napoleon's plaything for the evening.

Now Napoleon stepped back to admire his work, as Illya came to realize the ingeniousness of his confinement. He pulled at the cuffs and tried arching his back to lift himself out of the sling, but soon found that he could not. His eyes went wide as he met with defeat again and again and his cock grew harder and began to leak slightly. Napoleon smiled with utmost satisfaction.

"You see what I mean?" he asked conversationally as he began to remove his own clothes, carefully unbuttoning his leather vest and silk shirt. "You can fight all you like, but you're not going anywhere."

Napoleon took his time undressing, putting his clothes away carefully as always and pleasantly aware of Illya's eyes following him around the room. When he was done undressing, Napoleon crossed to his toy closet and opened the doors to peruse its contents. One day, he mused, he would really like to cane Illya's lovely, firm backside, but they both still had healing welts and scars on their backs from their most recent mission and so any such punishment was out for tonight. Now nipple clamps, those were a must, and Napoleon himself wanted a cock ring. Watching Illya endure his torments would be Napoleon's own delicious torment, and he wanted to be sure to last for the evening.

He fastened the cock ring on, then placed a few other items on a side table where Illya couldn't see them. He turned back to his sub then, juggling a pair of gem studded nipple clamps in one hand. The sight of Illya spread open and suspended over his bed arrested him once more, and he drew in a long breath, his own dark eyes meeting Illya's wide blue ones. As Napoleon felt his own Dominance all but rolling off him, he watched the almost alarmed distress fading from Illya's eyes, replaced by something like acceptance, though the arousal never left his gaze.

"Napoleon..." Illya murmured, the first word he'd uttered since his defiant curses a little while ago.

"Shh." Napoleon calmed him, stroking his cheek with gentle fingers. "You know I'll take care of you. You're going to suffer for me, my Illyushka, but it will be the most delicious suffering, and you'll love every minute of it."

"Yes..." Illya whispered with a swallow. "You have me. I am yours."

"Oh Illya..." Napoleon felt a surge of Dominance and something even more profound, and could not stop himself from bending to demand a kiss from his sub. Illya complied with unfeigned desire and Napoleon had to drop the nipple clamps on the bed so that he could clutch at Illya's head and deepen the kiss. A sweeter kiss he would swear he'd never known in his life, and if there was one small part of him that knew the further implications of this revelation, it knew that this matter could wait.

When they'd both grown breathless with the kiss, Napoleon drew back and gathered up the nipple clamps once more, smiling down at his sub with evil anticipation.

"One thing you'll learn about me," Napoleon said, positioning the first clamp over Illya's left nipple, "is that I love ornamenting my subs. I spent a week in Japan learning the fine art of rope bondage, and I spent a month apprenticed to a Master in Algiers who creates the most ornate play piercings on his subs you've ever seen."

As he spoke Napoleon began tightening the clamp, watching Illya's face go from carefully impassive to tense to tight lipped with pain and his breath began to quicken. Napoleon paused to admire how the emerald and sapphire rhinestones glittered where they hung below Illya's darkening nipple, then set about attaching the other.

"I'd love the chance to do either one of those things to you," Napoleon continued conversationally, "but I have a feeling that it's the rope bondage you'd love the most. I've got yards and yards of the most perfect black silk rope I could use to bind you into absolute immobility, and the black would contrast so beautifully with your skin... There, now that's an excellent beginning."

Napoleon stood back to admire the two colorful ornaments decorating Illya's chest now, and how his sub's lips parted with each panting breath he took. Napoleon could not limit himself to looking alone for long, however, and quickly darted back in to lick each of Illya's captured nipples. This elicited a brief cry of agony from Illya, his back arching at the sensation.

"Shh..." Napoleon soothed. "You can't fight it, you know that," he murmured, gently stroking Illya's face, brushing the hair away from his wide blue eyes. "Just let it take you."

Napoleon returned to his side table now, gathering up a fine silver chain strung with small bells every few inches. A small clip at each end allowed him to fasten the chain to each of the nipple clamps and to Napoleon's delight it hung down just far enough that he could hook it over the barbell on Illya's cock. Now the chain hung taught from one nipple, down to his erect and weeping cock and then back up to the other nipple. The little bells chimed at Illya's smallest movements.

"Oh, now that is just perfect," Napoleon said with deep satisfaction, hearing Illya whimper slightly in response. Just blowing on the chain caused it to swing and tug on Illya's nipples and cock, which caused him to writhe in his bonds, which in turn caused the chain to swing and pull on Illya's sensitized flesh once more.

"Alright, I think you're ready for your next ornamentation, but from now on they'll be for my pleasure alone," Napoleon said, collecting a soft velvet blindfold from the side table. Illya's eyes grew wider still at the sight.

"No, please, Napoleon..." he begged, voice actually shaking. Napoleon waited for Illya's safe word, and in that pause he saw understanding in Illya's eyes, that this was what he was waiting for, but no safe word came.

"I think that this is something you need, my Illyushka," Napoleon said softly, tying the blindfold in place. "You're too used to pain, too good at fighting it. You need to get out of your head, and I'm going to do whatever I need to to get you there. You're safe with me; you know that, right?"

"Yes," he heard Illya breathe and slowly his trembling subsided as Napoleon caressed him gently. Without speaking another word, Napoleon now took up a new implement from the side table, this one a small flogger —no more than twelve inches including the handle— on which the 'flails' were not of leather or knotted rope, but thin strands of rubber. He swished it through the air a few times, smacking it against his own forearm as well, giving Illya some idea of what might be coming by the sound.

The little rubber flogger would sting with a mild to cutting sharp intensity, depending on where and how hard it was employed. Napoleon began by striking lightly at the insides of Illya's thighs, letting his sub get used to the pleasantly light sting and slowly become drawn into the pain. Before he had played as a sub, Napoleon had never understood how seductive pain could be, and having that knowledge now allowed him to give Illya just what he needed. As much as Napoleon respected and admired his old Dom tutor, he knew he'd been badly wrong about not letting Tops experience or understand more about pain.

He played the little flogger against the pale skin of Illya's thighs until both were pink and flushed with abuse and Illya's breath was punctuated with soft cries. He shifted his target then, to the inside of Illya's arms, which was an unexpected spot and caused Illya to draw in a shocked breath. Napoleon struck hard here from the beginning, not letting Illya get slowly used to this new torment, but soon he shifted his target again, to the cruelest spot of all.

Illya gave a loud, agonized cry as the flogger struck his left nipple for the first time, hard and vicious. He sobbed as Napoleon flogged first his left nipple, then his right, and the little bells on the chains attached to the nipple clamps and his cock rang unceasingly throughout. Napoleon watched his sub's body as he punished him, saw the tension slowly, slowly bleed away until the last of the fight was gone and only submission remained.

Illya's cries had devolved to soft breathy whimpers when Napoleon finally decided that his sub's nipples had endured enough. He moved to strike at the insides of Illya's thighs again for a moment, just to remind him that his circumstances were unpredictable, but then (silently) put the flogger down and began the next phase in his campaign.

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

Illya was not meant to know that there was going to be any sort of shift in tactics at this point, and so the first thing Napoleon did next was to lean over his sub's body and lick the painfully abused nipples and toy with the clamps that held them so cruelly. This made Illya cry out again, loudly, but his body remained lax, so that Napoleon knew he was still deep in his sub-space. Now Napoleon began to prepare a few things he needed for an ingenious trick he'd actually learned from a rent-boy he'd employed in Seoul while on leave one weekend.

First he cut the thumb from a medical latex glove, leaving a generous portion of the base attached. Next he inserted his own tongue into the 'thumb' space, coated the latex covering his tongue with lube and waited a moment for it to warm to his own skin temperature. Master Giuseppe had been of the opinion that a thorough enema would render a partner safe for rimming, but Napoleon had learned otherwise in college, and had also learned that enemas can suck the fun out of even an excellent rim job. This solution, however, had the benefits of being both safe and uncomplicated.

Feeling the soft, warm, slippery pressure of his (latex covered) tongue circling his entrance would come almost as a shock to Illya, in contrast to what he'd been experiencing only a moment ago. Illya gave a huge gasp and a shudder at this contact, so that the bells on the silver chain chimed, tugging once more on his cock and nipples. Napoleon smoothed his hand over Illya's over-sensitized thighs and continued to tongue Illya's entrance, circling, lapping, and then pressing inside.

Napoleon loved how thoroughly this undid his subs, every time. His sense of mastery, and of control sang in his veins as he forced his way into his sub's body, claiming every part of him. One hand holding the bit of glove in place, the other soothing Illya's trembling body, Napoleon slowly tongue fucked his sub until his tongue had had all it could take. By that time Illya was keening softly with arousal and pleasure, and Napoleon was almost painfully hard within the confines of his cock ring.

Drawing his mouth away from Illya, he removed the bit of glove from his tongue and disposed of it tidily. He then came to kneel on the bed between Illya's open thighs and adjusted the ropes supporting the lower half of Illya's body so that he was tilted downward and positioned perfectly for Napoleon to enter him. He leaned over his sub first, however, gently stroking his face before demanding another kiss. Illya was utterly lost in sensation now, and opened to Napoleon's demand as if it were second nature; as if he were merely an extension of Napoleon's desire.

"I'm going to fuck you now," Napoleon murmured as he drew back from the kiss.

"Yes... yes please," was all that Illya said in reply, and Napoleon felt another surge of triumphant Dominance.

"You will come when I tell you to," he said now, calming himself so that he wouldn't come the minute he removed his cock ring. He released the snap with trembling fingers, taking slow, deep breaths.

"Yes," Illya said again. "Yes, please."

Positioning himself at Illya's entrance without further pause, Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself and savoring this fulfillment of his desires. When he finally pressed his way in, it was like a homecoming, the culmination of a lifelong search for something he hadn't even known he was looking for.

"Illya, oh God, Illya," he moaned, feeling himself enclosed in the tight, slick heat of his sub's body. He remained there, unmoving for a long moment as Illya's body became accustomed to his intrusion and he became accustomed to sensations of Illya's strength and warmth all around him. Something came to Napoleon then —an epiphany of sorts which would change the way he thought about many things in the days and years to come.

His was the prerogative to Dominate, to command and to control the situation, but the strength —the real strength— that belonged to Illya. His was the strength of the reed which may bow in the wind when the tree shatters, and this might well be said of all subs. The strength of a Dominant was fragile, brittle, and Napoleon knew it to be true even of himself. Here he was, the man in control, but it was Illya who surrounded him, held the most vulnerable part of him in the most intimate embrace possible, with the boundless strength to let Napoleon have his way with him entirely. The enormousness of the notion might have unmanned him entirely save that he was here to service Illya, as much as Illya was here to serve him.

Stricken to the soul by the profundity of this act, this dance of power and consent in which they were taking part, Napoleon began to move, slowly at first with small thrusts of his hips, then more deeply. Illya groaned low and loud in response to his deepening thrusts and Napoleon took hold of the sling and began to move Illya's whole body in counterpoint to his own, pushing Illya away as he withdrew and pulling him forward as he thrust in. They both cried out now, with passion and desire as their bodies knew the repeated torment of separation and ecstasy of rejoining.

The beauty of this arrangement was that it meant no effort at all for Illya and relatively little for Napoleon. In theory they could carry on in this manner for hours, but both men were far too aroused and desirous of completion to do so tonight. Napoleon had been fighting off his climax from nearly the first moment he entered Illya's body and now he knew he could fight it no longer. Glancing up at his sub, he saw Illya's body sheened with sweat, his face dreamy and lost in pleasure but his cock rigid and slick with precum.

With trembling fingers, Napoleon unhooked the silver chain from Illya's cock, smiling to hear the sobbing groan Illya gave as he brushed the slick head and toyed with the little barbell.

"Come now, my Illyushka," Napoleon murmured. "Come for me now, let me see you..."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Illya gave a soul deep moan and threw his head back in ecstasy, his release pulsing over Napoleon's hand and over his own chest and belly. At the first contraction of Illya's body around Napoleon's cock, he was propelled into his own climax, vision whiting out, body spasming with pleasure and release. He lost time... possibly they both did, for the climax spun out between the two of them, echoing back and forth until it finally dwindled into stillness.

Napoleon returned to himself still inside his sub, draped over his body with his arms wrapped tight around him. There were tears in his eyes.

"Jesus God almighty," he said in a wrecked voice, lifting himself up slowly and carefully withdrawing. Illya made a small sound at this, but his face was relaxed under the blindfold, his expression serene. Napoleon reached up slowly to brush his sub's face.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?" Illya nodded.

"I'm going to take the nipple clamps off now... unless you want the blindfold off first?" Illya shook his head at this, which did not surprise Napoleon in the least. Illya gave a sharp hiss as the pressure was released from each nipple, and Napoleon inspected each closely to assure that no real damage had been done. His mark remained below Illya's collarbone as intended, and seeing it made Napoleon smile again.

"Okay, I'm going to release your ankles now," he continued, waiting for Illya's nod before he moved. Lowering each leg carefully to the bed, Napoleon next notified Illya that his arms would be released and gently massaged his overstretched shoulder muscles as he did so. Now that Illya was finally free of the sling Napoleon lifted him off of it and laid him on the bed, then cleared the sling away so that the two of them could lay curled together there, much as they had done on the cold, damp, makeshift bed in the abandoned cabin, during their first mission together.

"You can take the blindfold off any time you wish," Napoleon said softly, pressing his lips to Illya's cheek. "Whenever you're ready."

"Thank you," Illya finally spoke, his voice little more than a whisper.

The hour was quite late, and they both might have slept, or at least dozed, but Napoleon did not. Some part of him still vibrated with the Dominant energy of the scene, and the sheltering and tending to his sub in the aftermath was very much part of that. He had a feeling that Illya was enjoying some equivalent counterpart, for the arms he'd wrapped around his Top never grew lax in sleep. After some length of time, however, they both stirred, stretching muscles too long unmoving.

With a deep sigh, Illya slowly lifted the mask from his eyes, blinking up dazedly at Napoleon with a look so beguiling that he felt his heart falter.

"Napasha," he said. "That was... like nothing anyone has ever done with me, like nothing I ever imagined..."

Napoleon smiled, feeling a more profound contentment than he had words to express. "It was my pleasure and honor," he said, tenderly brushing the strands of golden hair out of Illya's eyes. "Will you stay the rest of the night?"

Illya gave a faint chuckle. "I can barely imagine moving from this bed, much less your flat," he said. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me till morning."

"Well, I suppose I have no one to blame but myself," said Napoleon, letting a little smugness show in his voice. He understood Illya's reluctance to leave the bed, but as Top and host he had a few responsibilities still, and so forced himself up. He put away the sling, and other toys and supplies, then fetched a moist cloth from the washroom to clean Illya up. When all that was done he settled Illya under the covers and then joined him, spooning up behind him with a contented sigh.

Napoleon was deliciously exhausted, spent and as comfortable as he could ever remember being, but in his last few moments of wakefulness he was revisited by an impression, an awareness of something new and indelible between them. Napoleon knew its name by now, but shied away from recognizing it, even in his own thoughts. It was dangerous; Napoleon knew this without a doubt, but knew that when it asserted itself again —and it most definitely would— he would not be able to deny it.

 

Neither one of them had anywhere to be the next day, but they both woke on their own at a relatively early hour. Ever the gentleman, Napoleon let Illya use the shower first while he went to make coffee and breakfast. The coffee was ready and bacon frying away when Illya appeared in the kitchen, hair damp and tousled, wearing his jeans from yesterday and one of Napoleon's plain white t shirts. He looked, in Napoleon's estimation, positively edible, but he knew better than to make any assumptions. Illya had subbed for him last night, but it was a new day and they had negotiated nothing about what would happen after.

They made small talk over coffee, and then Illya wolfed down his portion of the eggs, bacon and toast Napoleon cooked with his usual gusto, though he did not fail to complement Napoleon on his cooking skills and hostly attributes. It was as they were enjoying their third cups of coffee that Napoleon finally raised the subject they'd both been avoiding all morning.

"So," he began, staring into his coffee cup. "This is where I usually cut my subs loose... which most of them know is coming. I don't generally do long term relationships, as you and everyone else in UNCLE knows..." He glanced up to see Illya's confirming smirk, encouraging him to continue.

"But, um... I hope you know, last night was..." He trailed off, words failing him.

"Last night was something else entirely," Illya finished for him and Napoleon nodded in profound relief. At least they were on the same page, even if neither of them knew which book it was from.

"Illya, I would... I would be honored to Top you again, any time you felt like it, which is not something my subs usually hear me say," Napoleon explained. "But... maybe... well, I don't know how it is with you at all, and I don't want to make any missteps here."

"Nor do I," Illya replied promptly, and once again Napoleon knew they were on the same page. Their relationship might be new, but already they both knew how important it was. "And how it is with me is that I tend to... migrate back and forth between the two dynamics over a period of weeks or months. It varies, and while sometimes a switch can be brought about by the sort of mission I've just been on, at other times my mood seems to simply change. It may be the phase of the moon for all I know."

"So..." Napoleon began hesitantly, "you might be open to something...?"

"In the near future? Yes, quite possibly," Illya finished for him. "And what I said last night in jest, it is true also. It will not matter what 'mood' I am in at the moment, if you ever wish me to Top you again, you need only ask."

"Oh, I will," Napoleon said with a smile. "But you should know, it's not an urge I have all that often."

"I will not require reciprocity," Illya said with a sly smile. Then his expression darkened and he sighed. "If we do see... more of each other, however, we will have to be careful. I am still watched from time to time, lest I conspire to run off with some decadent Western Top. It seems I'm still a valuable State Asset."

"Luckily, we both happen to be secret agents," Napoleon said, hoping to lighten Illya's bitter tone. "Being careful is at the top of our skill sets. And your masters in Moscow have nothing to worry about from me. I'm... not really the collaring type."

"Really?" Illya seemed honestly surprised, but then Napoleon's slightly blue-blood upbringing were as well known around UNCLE as his predatory dating habits. "Surely your family will eventually expect..."

"They're not particularly happy about it," Napoleon said,"but they know why, so they don't press the issue." Napoleon gave a chagrined sigh then, for it was clearly unfair not to tell Illya the rest, for all that he was very carefully not asking.

"There was someone once, a young man in my unit when I was in Korea," Napoleon explained. "I'd have given him a collar, all my worldly goods, anything he asked for. I'd have given my life for his... but that ended up going the other way around instead."

Illya said nothing, but laid his hand over Napoleon's where it lay on the table. "They tell me it happens sometimes," Napoleon continued, "that once a Top has really committed himself to a sub, and that sub dies... any desire to collar again dies too. Anyhow," he said after a pause. "That's why... And besides, I don't see you being much the collar wearing type either, to be honest. I'd like to see you free of this one, some day." He reached up to touch the black leather circling Illya's neck with a frown.

"Well, you're not wrong on that count," Illya admitted with a sigh. "Anyone who offered me a collar would only be proving that they really have no idea who I am. And I wouldn't mind being shut of this one," Illya flicked at his Soviet collar disdainfully, "but they will never make it easy. They may not allow it at all."

"That's where you need to think like an American, partner mine," Napoleon said, taking up Illya's hand boldly. "If it needs to happen, we'll find a way to make it happen." Illya gave a wistful smile and shook his head.

"But that is not what makes us good partners, Napoleon," he said. "You are the one who thinks like an optimistic American, while I think like pessimistic Slav. We balance each other."

"Yeah, we do, don't we," Napoleon said, leaning back in his chair. "In more ways than one."

"To balance," Illya said, lifting his coffee cup in a toast.

"To balance," Napoleon repeated, clinking his cup against Illya's, and thinking that this was a safe way to say it, but that what they had was much, much more than that.

 

A week later they were back at work, though Illya still had another week of physical therapy for his feet. Since they'd mostly been reading UNCLE personnel reports (though Napoleon wasn't sure why Waverly had explicitly assigned this task to the both of them) Illya had made himself his own space in Napoleon's office and his quiet companionship had made the task just that much less onerous. Today they had a meeting with the boss, most likely to discuss what they had read in those reports, but Napoleon wasn't actually sure what they were meant to be looking for.

There was no one else in the office when they entered, and no files on the conference table; only a small box. There were a clutch of case files in Master Waverly's hand as he entered the room, however, and he set them on the table next to the box as he sat.

"I must say," he began without preamble. "It still gives me great satisfaction to be proven right on certain matters. Those old fossils in Berlin won't have a leg to stand on when they read these mission reports of yours." Here he tapped the handful of files which he'd laid on the table beside him. "The both of you are to be commended, not only for your professional conduct in accomplishing your mission, but for your... acclimating to each others styles, and forming a most effective working relationship."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances, half mystified, half cautiously pleased. "Thank you, sir," Napoleon said. "I think I speak for both of us when I say how well our respective skill sets seem to compliment each other. I believe we both look forward to serving UNCLE as a team again in the future."

"Precisely what I have called you here to talk about, or at least one of the things," Waverly confirmed with a nod. "The bean counters in Section VII have recently released a study which proves, fairly unequivocally, that agents present a greater return on investment if they work in teams and partnerships than if they work on their own. To that end we will be instituting a new policy that all Section II agents and the more senior of the Section III agents are to be assigned permanent partners or teammates. You, Mr Solo, and you, Mr Kuryakin, are to be our flagship pair."

Napoleon straightened in his chair, naturally leery of being made a flagship anything, but finding no objection at all to being permanently partnered with Illya. Illya, however, was frowning, seemingly in confusion.

"Sir," he began, pausing to phrase his question diplomatically, "while I've no objection at all to working with Mr Solo on a permanent basis, I'm still not rated as a field agent, and there are those who will most certainly raise objections."

"Yes, well, there is one very simple solution to that problem," Master Waverly said, moving to open the little box on the table beside him. "May I have your badge please, Mr Kuryakin?"

Eyebrows lifted in puzzlement, Illya detached the Section VIII badge from his lapel and handed it across to his boss. Napoleon (and Illya) knew what had to be coming, given Waverly's previous statements, but Napoleon still felt his eyes widen in astonishment when Waverly lifted out the new, yellow badge, bearing the number 2. Waverly and Illya both stood so that the Section 1 head could pin the badge on his new Section II number 2 and Napoleon felt his astonishment transform into pride and pleasure.

"Your paperwork will take another day or so to process," Waverly said, "but as of now you may consider yourself transferred out of Section VIII and officially assigned to Section II, as a fully qualified field agent. Congratulations, Agent Kuryakin."

"I... I am honored, sir," Illya said after a speechless moment. "May I infer, then, that I am the first submissive to be made a field agent in UNCLE?"

"You are," Waverly confirmed, "but it is my intention that you should be the first of many, starting immediately. This brings us to my second agenda item. The personnel files I've asked you to review are all of submissives working in other sections of UNCLE who may qualify to be transferred to Section III or possibly even Section II. They'll have to be partnered, of course, as per our other new policy, and it's probably best if they're partnered with Tops. I'd like you two to determine who among those whose files you've been reviewing should be transferred, and who they might best be partnered or teamed with."

The rest of the meeting was more or less just crossing 't's and dotting 'i's, and Napoleon could practically see Illya's head spinning throughout. They left Waverly's office with Napoleon grinning like a kid at Christmas and Illya looking like he'd been hit over the head with a two-by-four. His stunned look faded a bit when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror inside the elevator, fingering the badge as if in a dream.

"It's the real thing, partner mine," Napoleon said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You earned it, ten times over."

"Well, of course I did," Illya said as the elevator stopped and he turned to exit, schooling his face into something more dignified. "Master Waverly is still taking some risk by making a submissive a full field agent. Not everyone will take it so well."

"It's a calculated risk, perhaps, but when have you known Master Waverly to take unfounded risks?" Napoleon pointed out. "You and I both know a dozen or more submissives who can and should be made field agents... like that British fellow, what's his name... Shale?"

"Mark Slate," Illya answered with a smile. "And he's already been working with a Dom from Section II, an excellent agent named..."

"April Dancer," Napoleon put in as he opened the door to his... their office. "I'd definitely put them at the top of the list. You know," he paused, looking around the small space, "I bet we can put in for a bigger office, now that it's the two of us."

Illya nodded. "I suspect you're right... but I hope they let me keep my lab," he said. "I'd really prefer to continue some of my scientific work for UNCLE."

"This is all okay, isn't it?" Napoleon asked, suddenly full of doubts. "I mean, nobody asked you if you wanted to be a field agent..."

"I don't imagine anybody asked you if you wanted a promotion, either," Illya replied with a smirk. "Of course it is okay, Napoleon. It is a bit of a shock, I will admit, but a good shock... a very good shock."

"Oh good," Napoleon said with evident relief, and then, because the office door was closed, he drew his partner into his arms, holding him close. "I am so proud, and so happy, my Illyushka," he said quietly. "And I would very much like to show you just how much after dinner at my place tonight."

"Hmm," Illya said, while returning the embrace with warmth and a frisson of desire. "I believe that I would be quite receptive to such a demonstration. Shall we begin the evening with takeout from the Greek deli on 43rd St?"

"Whatever you like, partner mine," Napoleon said with utter contentment and anticipation. "Whatever your heart desires, I'm more than happy to provide."

And truer words, Napoleon Solo thought, his sometime sub and sometime Top and partner in all things in his arms, had never been spoken.

~THE END~

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a fairly well formed outline for a sequel simmering away in my fevered brain, but some of the details need to mature and firm up a bit. I may be ready to start writing on it around September, or Christmas at the latest. It does have a title, however, so stay tuned for:
> 
> "The Theremin's Protege Affaire"


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